


we're alone now

by rikkitikki



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Amputation, And Then It Got Worse: the fic, Bathing/Washing, Beating, Blood and Gore, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossdressing, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eye Trauma, First Time, Fisting, Internalized Homophobia, Leashes, Love Confessions, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Praise Kink, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming, Spanking, Threesome - M/M/M, is there a tag for "you caught tuberculosis", male reader - Freeform, that's right it's a mary sue love redemption fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:36:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 78,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23032579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rikkitikki/pseuds/rikkitikki
Summary: "Far as I see it, you've got 'til Dutch gets tired of you to figure out what you're gonna do," Arthur says, and you swallow.  "Either by playin' his game or...""Or?"( m!reader ft. the gay low honor cowboys )
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Dutch van der Linde, Arthur Morgan/Dutch van der Linde/Reader, Arthur Morgan/Reader, Dutch van der Linde/Reader
Comments: 78
Kudos: 216





	1. Chapter 1

You meet him at a party, and he's wonderful. It's the worst thing that's ever happened to you.

Saint Denis isn't one of your frequent haunts. In fact, you spend most of your time poring over the books at the ranch while your father traipses off to the mayor's parties, and maybe that unfair division of work is part of your grudge against the place.

You're not getting a choice tonight, though. _Come now, Ezra, get dressed, that's a good boy_ from outside your door as your father dresses himself, has his pre-party bourbon. He forces one down you too ( _it'll loosen you up, son, you're so stiff at these things_ ) and you're already buzzing by the time you make the long carriage ride from the ranch to the mayor's home.

It's a lovely party. You wish you could enjoy it.

Your father drags you up to the balcony, where Signor Bronte says unflattering things about you both, from what little Italian you've studied in your private time. You smile through it, through asides about _the fat cowman and his pretty boy,_ through his tasteless jokes and his jeering over the guests.

" _Thank you for your time, gentlemen,_ " you say in crisp Italian, and their faces fall. Bronte's smile comes back as a sliver.

"Talented, isn't he?" Bronte says, eying you, and maybe your father senses the danger. He laughs, grabs you by the arm.

"Oh, Ezra here is what you'd call an _ingenue,_ " your father drawls, fucking up the word completely, and laughs with a belly-deep _hyuck hyuck_ as he pulls you aside. "Smart as a tack, this one! Would you excuse us, gentlemen?"

"Of course." Bronte lifts his glass to you, in a mock toast. "Have a good evening, _Ezra._ We must talk properly sometime, you and I."

Your father laughs again, drags you to the other side of the balcony, safely out of earshot before he grabs you by the arms, red-faced.

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?"

"I was only--"

"You _embarrassed_ the man," your father spits, letting go of you with a sharp shove.

"Do you know what he was saying about us?"

"Oh Christ, Ezra." Your father pulls his handkerchief, mops his sweaty brow. He's already had a few drinks, you can tell. "Contrary to what you believe, I'm not stupid. I know why he talks in that fruity Italian shit. If you're going to take over the ranch someday, you need to understand when to keep your mouth shut."

You think to argue, but it's… pointless, you can already tell. Signor Bronte is busy talking with another group of men, these ones much rougher than what you're used to seeing at these parties. You give them a cursory glance before your father takes you by the shoulders again.

"Ezra, I need you to go far away from Signor Bronte and busy yourself. Make some friends or something, God knows you need them." Before you can argue - not that you would, spending more time around Bronte seems like a living hell - he's pushing you towards a servant, who's already primed to lead you out of the _high society_ section of the party. "Go on, now."

"Yes, sir," you drawl, and you catch something about _killing each other and fucking cows_ from Bronte. The two men, you realize now, are too grizzled, too broad to be high society types - if you had to guess, you'd say they must be cowboys, working men.

The dark-haired man, though, he looks like he belongs here. You meet his eyes briefly in passing, giving each other short, respectful nods before you're escorted back to the party itself.

You do take a leaf from your father's book, however. You get drunk.

See, the wine here is swill, but you slip into the kitchen and take a bottle of something clear and strong-looking while the staff watches helplessly. There's a certain confidence that comes with having money, you're proof enough of that; no one stops you as you find a table and start drinking directly from the bottle.

It's stout stuff. Burns. Tequila?

You're halfway through the bottle when you finally stand from the table, swaying just slightly on your feet. You should probably make sure your father isn't getting himself into any trouble - he's liable to do such, at parties, causing you all manner of embarassment afterwards.

But you only get as far as the veranda before your feet betray you, sending you staggering into the dark-haired man from before. He catches you with a grunt, stands you up.

"You alright there, son?" The man chuckles at your flushed face and hazy eyes. "Looks like you've had a few too many."

"Bronte's an ass," you slur, apropos of nothing, because your drunken self feels a kinship with this man over the Signor's petty insults. " _I_ don't think you fuck cows."

There's a beat. And then the man _laughs,_ a bright sound.

"Everything under control here?" says a man coming up hot on your right, and you blink at him. He's the man from earlier, the other man who had to deal with Bronte's jeering. This other man looks at you, nods his head. "Evenin'."

"Howdy."

Maybe your father is right. Maybe you really need to learn to shut up more often. The man's face flickers in confusion at the way you mimic his drawl, glancing to the dark-haired man for guidance.

"All well and fine, Arthur. Just someone who seems to share our viewpoint on Signor Bronte."

There's a meaningful _look_ passed between them there, and this Arthur man nods, slinking off back into the party. The dark-haired man offers his hand.

"Archibald Smith."

"Ezra Fairchild," you reply, taking his hand for a firm shake.

"Of the Fairchild cattle operation?" Now he seems interested, touching your arm just briefly to guide you towards a table. You're easy under his hands, let him guide you wherever he pleases. Your head is buzzing pleasantly. "Well, I am indeed blessed to meet so many influential men in one night."

You fluster. Can't help it. You're drunk, for one, and not used to such open praise - your father takes everything for granted, your mother is long buried. Hardly any servants in the house to keep up with. Either way, you feel warmth creeping into your face as you duck your head, watching the man pour you another drink. Into an actual glass, this time.

"You're probably thinking of my father."

"Am I? My familiarity with your family is just in passing." He pushes another drink into your hands, pouring another for himself. "Go on, son. It's a party."

It's a party. You tip the glass back and sigh at the liquid burn, your eyes heavy and hot as you shut them, rubbing at them.

"Ezra--"

Your head shoots up at your father's voice, turning in your seat as he comes marching up. He's more sober than you for once, but still ruddy, glancing from your drinks to the man across from you.

"Who is this you're bothering?"

"Not in the least," Archibald says, standing. He shakes your father's hand. "I assume you must be Fairchild senior?"

"I am," he says, glancing at you suspiciously. Like you might have gone and made friends with an _undesirable,_ that's how little he trusts your judgment. "And who are you?"

They talk. They get along fantastically, even. This Archibald is a sparkling conversationalist, and he seems to charm the two of you endlessly with his wit, and somehow, things turn towards business. Your father starts listing off cattle numbers, drunkenly, and they're completely wrong.

"Our last intake was actually 302," you say at one point, correcting him.

"No, I'm certain it was 282, Ezra."

"I have the books. I can show you when we get home," you drawl, and your father sends you a _look._ "Or not."

"Quiet, Ezra."

You turn back to your drink. Archibald gives you a long look before your father takes his attention away again, the two of them chatting in lively fashion about cattle, about business, and eventually, about an invitation to your home.

"You see, we are _highly_ interested in the cattle business," Archibald says, swirling his drink. "Highly interested. In fact, my boy Arthur has a wife with family across state lines who breed cattle."

"Do they, now?" Your father is practically preening over the attention. "Well, if they're interested, we're at the cusp of a new breeding season. You and your men could come see our stock yourselves and write to them."

"We would be _very_ interested in such an arrangement, Mr. Fairchild."

Addresses and times are exchanged. You don't pay much attention until your father grips your shoulder again, giving you a little shake.

"Now, Ezra, mind your manners with Mr. Smith while I say my goodbyes." He pushes the bottle out of your reach. "And don't drink too much, it's an awful habit."

"Yes, sir," you say, deadpan, and wait until he's gone to reach for the bottle.

Archibald whisks it out of your reach first, pouring himself a drink, then pouring you one.

"It's a _party._ Few extra drinks won't hurt nobody, will they?"

Of course not. So you have a few more. They go so fast with him sitting here, murmuring stories you won't remember later, pouring you a new drink the moment the last one is gone, that it's - sooner than you think before your head is swimming, and when you try to stand, your knees go to jelly on you.

People are staring at you, falling-down drunk. Archibald comes to your rescue, hauling you back onto your feet and throwing an arm around your shoulders, leading you towards the house.

"Come on, son. Let's get you inside."

He's warm, broad. You let him support a good half your weight as he leads you off down a hallway, quietly trying doors before one of the servants can catch you and chase you both out. One of them opens, and the two of you slip into some sort of lounge.

"Sit down for a minute, catch your breath. Don't want your daddy finding you like this, do you?"

"I don't--" you're slurring, your hands on his chest as you push. "-- _care_ what he thinks. I don't give a _shit._ He doesn't appreciate - he doesn't--"

Your hands are on his chest still. He's solid under his clothes, holy hell, and his hand comes down on your shoulder when your fingers splay over his stomach, curious.

"Hold on one minute, son," Archibald says, and you swear there's the slightest thread of tension there. "You need to stop and think about what you're--"

Think about what you're doing. But you're so drunk, and you've never gotten to touch a man before - and now, the quiet desire is overwhelming.

You've always known you fancied men. Just made your peace with the fact that it would never happen, or - thought you did, apparently, because this isn't what men are supposed to _do._ They find nice women to settle down with and fuck cowboys in dim saloons, not...

You freeze, then, suddenly uncertain. You shouldn't. Men shouldn't do this.

But Archibald hasn't thrown you off yet, roaring for your father, or the police. He's just watching, eyes dark, looking at you through his lashes in a way that makes something in your chest flutter.

You look up at him, lips parted, and he groans like he's in pain, dipping his head to fit his mouth against yours.

It's different than kissing a woman. His lips are firmer against yours, his neat facial hair brushing against your skin as you press yourself against him, looking for more. Feels good, feels _right,_ it's--

He pushes you away abruptly, already working to hide a slight flush.

"I do believe you've had a little too much, son," he says, not looking at you, and shame rushes over you like a river. He's a good man, not losing his mind over some twentysomething drunkenly lusting after him. You feel sort of bad for even putting him in this position. "And I believe your father was making his goodbyes. Best get back to the party."

"Yes sir," you slur. It's how your father always wants to be addressed, and Archibald is just a little older, so it fits. The words have his jaw tightening, though, his grip on you just this side of firm as he takes you by the shoulder and steers you back out.

One of the servants catches you coming out of a room, flustered, and ushers you back to the crowd. You meet your father there, and he clucks his tongue when he sees how drunk you are, gesturing for you to come to his side.

"Really, you don't know how much of a help you've been, an absolute blessing," your father gushes, shaking Archibald's hand. The man only smiles demurely. "Making for such pleasurable party conversation, and watching over my inebriated son."

"Really, he was no trouble at all. Very polite."

"Of course. Mannerliness is next to Godliness, you know."

"And next to cleanliness, I've heard," Archibald says, smiling, and even drunk you can recognize a hidden barb when you see one. Your father doesn't, apparently. "Well, it has been a _lovely_ evening, but my associates and I should be getting back home now. We'll see you next week at the ranch."

"Of course, of course. Have lovely evening, Mr. Smith." Your father wraps an arm around your shoulders, steers you towards the exit. "Come now, Ezra. Didn't I say to watch your drinking? Honestly, boy, you embarrass me sometimes."

You say nothing, and pass out during the carriage ride home. Lovely.

\---

In a week's time, you've nearly wiped the party from your memory - although to be honest, not much was left to begin with, not after the tequila. You remember Signor Bronte, his mocking Italian. You remember drinking. And you remember--

Archibald Smith, at your door in a week's time. You hear his arrival from your study, and come out to meet three burly men with guns at their hips. They look like the sort of men who work your ranch, like you would've assumed they were just here to work if you weren't meeting them at the house.

You look at Archibald and push down the memory of a sloppy, mistaken kiss.

"Mr. Smith," you say, offering your hand. "Arthur."

He tips his hat. You offer your hand to the third man, a blonde with long hair, but he pulls a face at your hand. Archibald sees this, tuts.

"Micah, please. We are _guests._ "

"Right, right. Wouldn't want to insult the hosts," this Micah says, insincere as all hell, and shakes your hand in a grip that's too tight for comfort. "Pleasure's all mine."

"I'm sure," you say, feigning a smile, and retrieve your hand quickly. "My father should be waiting for you. I'll take you to him."

Your father, as it turns out, is piss drunk in his office again. You open the door and lean in, smell the whiskey, and immediately shut it in the three men's faces, turning to them with a smile.

"It looks like my father is… indisposed, at the moment," you say, already leading them the opposite direction. The three men share looks before following you, already heading off towards the front door. "Why don't I show you men the cattle? That's what you're here to see, isn't it?"

"That it is." Archibald laughs, shallow. "Your father won't mind?"

"My father knows less about the cattle than I do," you say, tersely, and lead them outside. "Our prize-winning stock is over here."

"Arthur, Micah - why don't you mill about, have your fill of looking." As if on command, the two men are already dispersing, Archibald coming to your side. "Mr. Fairchild and I will talk business."

"Of course."

The workers pass by on occasion. You lead Archibald around the pens, showing off your prize cattle. _Your_ cattle. You tell him how you hand-picked certain pairs for breeding, show him strong calves with ribbons attached to their names.

"Now, son, don't take this the wrong way, but--" Archibald stops, like he's second-guessing himself, and you glance over. "Sure seems to me like you know a hell of a lot more about this business than your daddy does."

You flush. Genuine praise, that's new; all the praise you ever get from your father is when he's drunk, and even then, it isn't all that satisfying.

"Well." You clear your throat, leading him towards the horse pen. Not many left now, just your family's private horses; yours, a charcoal black stallion, immediately trots up to demand treats. "My father isn't as hands-on with the business, we'll say. His strength is in social calls."

"I can see how." Archibald reaches out to pet your horse, but it immediately whinnies at him, bristling as he pulls back. "This one yours? Hell of a stallion."

"His name is Merlin. Finest horse money can buy." You pet Merlin, reaching into the nearby bin for an apple. He all but snatches it out of your hand, trotting off to enjoy it. "Had no idea how a horse could be egotistical, but, well. You can see he has personality."

"That you certainly can."

"If you or your associates need horses--"

"We're more interested in the cattle," Archibald says, and you let out a hushed _of course, of course_ you give to every potential buyer who comes here. They get the run of the place, you make them happy, that's your job. "Is there somewhere private we could talk business?"

"My study, back at the house." You start off, waving him after you. "No one will disturb us there, I've left very explicit rules for the staff."

"Of course. After you."

It's a nice study. Your sanctuary. You've lined the walls with books, art, even a marble bust of some dead Roman general that Archibald eyes curiously while you make the two of you drinks. Men are always more willing to spend money when they've got a drink in their hand, you've found.

"Doesn't seem like your daddy's taste."

"That's because he doesn't come in here," you say, passing Archibald a bourbon, neat. "This room is entirely mine, you might say."

Archibald sips his bourbon. Hums, pleased. It's good stuff, you know that, you hardly drink anything else. You swallow yours whole and pour a second, dropping a ball of ice in it this time - it always lasts longer when you have ice in it, you find.

You realize, absently, that for being some ritzy cattle farmer, you've hardly talked about cattle at all. It's all been about you, your family, your father.

"What were you doing at the party?" you ask, unbidden. He looks at you for a moment before he answers.

"We were invited by Signor Bronte himself," he says, and the look on his face tells you he's less than taken with the Signor, much like you. "He's certainly a man of high esteem."

"Don't bullshit," you drawl, already two bourbons deep and only getting deeper. Archibald looks at you, raises his brows. "The _Signor_ is a pompous Italian son of a bitch who doesn't appreciate the country he's in."

"Now on that we can most certainly agree. Can throw a hell of a party, at least."

The party. You remember it clearly now, the feeling of Archibald's lips against your own, and you flush just the littlest bit.

"About the party," you say, and he looks at you, seems to know already where you're going with this. You're careful not to look at him the entire time, examining something on the mantle with absolute fascination. "I shouldn't have--"

A pause.

"I shouldn't have," you say again, certain. "Please, forgive me."

A hand on your shoulder. You turn to look at him, heat in your face from the drink (it's probably from the drink), brows raised.

"You just did what came natural, son," Archibald says, and pulls your drink out of your hand. He finishes it for you, sets it aside with his own empty glass. "I have been told I have an _irrepressible_ charm."

"I don't think anyone is arguing that," you say, just a little dazed as he settles a hand on your hip, thumb rubbing slow circles there. "Mr. Smith, I--"

"Shhh."

You should know better by now. Will absolutely kick yourself later for not seeing the blatant manipulation for what it is. Right now though, you don't know any better than to watch him tip your chin, forcing you to look up at him.

"Pretty little thing, aren't you?"

You don't know what to say. Nobody's ever called you _pretty._ Certainly not a man like this, either, handsome and broad, with a warm hand cupping your jaw, thumb pulling at your bottom lip.

You take his thumb in your mouth, just drunk enough to be daring, and press your tongue to the pad of his finger. He groans, actually _groans_ when you suck his thumb, eyes dark like before, hot like before.

It's too much. Thrilling, but just a little too thrilling for now. You pull back like coming back to yourself, wiping your mouth on your sleeve as you cross the room, leaning bodily over your desk with the weight of what you're flirting with. A _man,_ in your own house, in your study. It's--

"Cold feet?" Archibald says, low and teasing, and you rake your fingers through your hair and turn to face him, expression carefully schooled into something businesslike.

"Or something like that." You offer him a smile, just the littlest bit curt. "We should meet with my father. If you're looking to buy, you'll need his signature, not mine."

"Of course," Archibald says, his expression unreadable. Back to business, just like that. "After you."

"Another drink, first?" You pass him by, ignoring the warm smell of him as you pass. Cigar smoke, and gunpowder. "We'll need at least one more in us before we'll be able to understand him, I'm afraid."

"Well, far be it from me to turn down good bourbon."

By the time you reach your father, the three of you are more than a little tipsy. You swear Archibald sways when he leaves with his two men, and promises to come back in another week to make a sale.

"Very good, son," your father slurs, gripping your shoulder tightly before tottering off. "Very good."

Good. You do try so hard to be good these days.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~*~mind the tags~*~

"What do you think you're doing?"

Click.

Your voice is just the slightest bit unsteady as you shut the door to your study behind you, the revolver aimed square at his back. Archibald is statue still from his place across the room, his back to you as he leans over your desk.

One of your ledgers is spread out in front of him. You recognize the cover, and your own looping, neat handwriting.

Your father's laughter echoes at your back, from a few rooms away. He's being entertained by Arthur and some gruff mountain of a man, celebrating the imminent sale of a head of fresh, _expensive_ new cattle. You had been there too, and so had Archibald.

Until you'd excused yourself for a drink, and he'd quietly disappeared. Until you'd come back, and noticed, and gone looking for him.

Now you've caught him.

"Take it easy, son," Archibald says, lifts his hands in surrender, turns slow. "This is all just a - big misunderstanding."

"Is it?" He steps forward, and you glance down, make sure the gun is cocked. It's not like you use these things _regularly,_ you're no roughneck. Archibald takes another step while you're fussing with the gun, and this time, you aim it at his head. "Stop right there."

"Ezra. This is madness." Another step. He's bold. "Pointing a loaded gun at a man for double-checking your cattle numbers?"

"That's not the right book," you drawl, and he stops. "If you wanted that one, you would've asked. Why are you in my _personal_ books?"

"Would you believe me if I told you I was just curious?"

"No," you say, but you're not certain. Archibald senses this, you think, because he strolls forward with a certain confidence, gently lowers your gun. "Stay back--"

"Easy, son," he purrs, pulling close. You startle, trying to step back, but there's a hand on your wrist and another on the small of your back, crowding you. "Just take it easy. What's a pretty thing like you doing with a loaded gun, anyhow?"

Pretty.

He smells like cigar smoke and aftershave and skin, this close. Smells the way you imagined a man would, and you're stuttering when he inches you back against the door.

"I - I can't, sir, I--"

"Keep calling me that," he rumbles in your ear, low and hot, and you practically faint. "One more time, for me."

"S--" You swallow. A burst of laughter from a few rooms away sobers you up somewhat, your hand snaking between the two of you to press against his chest. "Stop--"

"I don't think you want me to."

If you had your senses about you, you'd hit him for that sort of ego. But you look at some distant point on the wall, and you still, and you give him more than enough opportunity to lean down, lips at your ear.

"I know you want this."

It's not untrue. You realize that now when he presses his lips to the spot just under your ear, his lips and teeth working the soft skin of your throat. You groan, head tipping back to thump against the door, your hands finding his vest and gripping like vises there.

Never been with a man like this. Never been the recipient of this kind of attention, and it's electrifying, this feeling. A soft noise catches in your throat when he digs his teeth in, and you tense against him.

"Stop, no - no marks."

"Spoilsport," Archibald huffs, but he listens. You wrap your arms around his neck with a groan as he starts up with watery kisses, warm presses of lips and tongue that have you shivering up against him. "Like that, do you?"

" _Yes._ " Your voice comes out of you in a rush, low and needy. "God yes."

"'Course you do," Archibald huffs, working his hands up under your buttoned shirt. They're rough, worn from a lifetime of hard work; you tremble as he drags them up your stomach, over your chest, his fingers coming to tweak a nipple. You squeak, a sharp, tiny little _oh_ that has him laughing huskily. "City boys. Always so _reactive._ "

Is he not from the city? You don't have time to ask, a groan fluttering out of you as he slots a thigh between yours. You press down against it gratefully, groaning again, and his voice fills your head again.

"And eager."

"I'm not," you say, lying, and he works the collar of your shirt down and bites down on your shoulder, hard. You should shriek, probably, or at least yelp, push him off.

The moan that shudders out of you is just a hair too loud. You both freeze, and you stare helplessly at the ceiling while Archibald laughs against your skin.

"I told you not to--"

"And I didn't think I had to tell you not to _lie_ to me," he replies, a roughness to his voice that thrills you. Like he's dangerous. Like he's a _bad man,_ and the fantasy shouldn't thrill you the way it does. "Understand, son?"

"Don't lie," you say, nodding.

"And keep your mouth shut. Wouldn't want your daddy wondering what you're up to."

Oh, god. The realization hits you of what you're doing and where you are, who you're around, and you push at his chest, trying to put distance between the two of you.

"We shouldn't--"

"Don't be so _yellow,_ boy." He reels you back, drags his tongue over your pulse in a way that gets you shivering, your eyes fluttering shut. "Just keep your voice down. You can handle that much, can't you?"

There's a challenge in that, to you. Maybe Archibald doesn't see it that way, but you bite your lip and nod sharply, accepting it. You don't need to prove anything to him, or to yourself. Really.

The nervousness melts away when he kisses you again, reaching down to grip you through the front of your trousers. You gasp, and he takes the opportunity to slip in, tasting like smoke and your father's good wine as he pushes his tongue into your mouth.

It's not the kiss you would've hoped for, deep down. But it still thrills you, and you find yourself whimpering sweetly into it, letting his thigh support most of your weight. You work your hips down onto it, cock a hard line through your pants, and the noises you make are downright humiliating.

"Such a sweet thing," he murmurs against your mouth at one point, and you chase it, nipping at his lips. "Turn around, now."

When you don't listen - because you don't, you're too demanding, chasing kisses and working your cock against his thigh with low, pleasant sounds - he pulls back and manhandles you instead, forcibly turning you around and pressing you face-first against the door.

"You don't have a clue the kind of things I do to lays who don't listen," he growls in your ear, fitting against you from behind. You feel his cock pressed to the curve of your ass like this, and you press back into it, letting out a sharp breath you hadn't realized you'd held. He laughs, sharp and unkind, and you're not about to admit how much you like that tone. "Like that, do ya? Wouldn't expect anything different from a repressed _high society_ boy like you. Been dreaming about somethin' like this for years, ain't you?"

His words don't quite make sense. Isn't he kin to a cattle family? Wouldn't that make him high society too? But it's not a concern right now, not when he's dragging your pants down your hips and palming your ass, squeezing with a roughness that makes you gasp.

"Not bad." He palms your balls next, fondles them in a way that makes you shiver. "Not a mark on you, hm?"

This doesn't feel like a quick romp with a lover. This feels more like being looked over like one of your cattle, the way he judges whether or not you're up to his standards. You choose to say nothing, not wanting to ruin the moment - maybe this is just how it is between men, impersonal as it may be.

"You're lucky I stay prepared." You glance back to see him with a tin of something in his hand, the lid already off. He scoops out a gob of something colorless and drops his hand, and you jump when you feel his thumb press into your ass, tightening instinctively. "Relax. You want this to hurt?"

"You're not helping," you say, practically whining. " _Help_ me relax."

"What are you, a woman? Need to be _romanced?_ "

He scoffs, and the scorn has you shrinking. Maybe you're doing this wrong. Maybe he's right, fuck, he sure as hell seems more experienced than you. After a moment, he presses in close again, teeth scraping gently at your nape to make you shiver. It's tongue next, and then light suction, and he repeats it all in a mindless, pleasant rhythm that gradually has you relaxing around the press of his finger.

You hardly realize he's slipped it in when he does. It takes you a second before the feeling catches up, and by then he's already worked his index finger in to the knuckle, and he ignores the way you gasp and tighten, working his finger in a steady pace that burns with the ache of stretched muscle.

But you knew that this much was going to happen, at least, so you try to relax. A few absolutely filthy (and not entirely well researched) novels had slipped into your hands at a family friend's house as a child, so you've gathered that this is supposed to be uncomfortable, if not hurt.

When he presses the second finger in, it hurts. You suck in a breath and press back against Archibald's chest.

"Stop, it's--"

"It's fine, son," he croons, gently but firmly pressing you back into place. He slows down his pace, gives you a few long moments to adjust to the weight and girth of his fingers before flexing them again, back and forth, spreading them until you whimper. "You're doing just fine."

Good. You're doing good.

You try to relax. Force yourself, even, to open up under his insistent attentions, whatever he had on his fingers slicking the way. He's not gentle, but he's not rough either, and soon he twists his wrist and presses down on a spot that makes you _whimper,_ cock twitching in your pants. He still hasn't touched you.

"Atta boy," he rumbles, and does it again. You don't know what he's doing, but it feels fucking _fantastic,_ blinding pangs of pleasure that leave you weak-kneed and panting. "Almost ready to--"

"Ezra?"

Your father's voice from somewhere down the hall stops you both dead. You're both scrambling to right yourselves a heartbeat later, yanking your pants back up, and then you're quickly pouring yourself another drink - by the time the door comes open, the two of you look red-faced still, but not like you were just about to fuck, so. You'll take your wins when they come.

"Ezra?" your father is less drunk than usual on these nights, eying the two of you. Archibald, in particular. "Is something the matter?"

"Not at all, sir," you say, a little too quickly, lifting your glass. "We were just going over the numbers one more time."

"If that's alright, Mr. Fairchild."

For all the world, Archibald didn't give the impression that he'd just been about to put his dick in you. He's put the couch between your father and himself though, you notice, the high back hiding his straining erection. The fear of being caught has taken care of yours, and so you cross over, whiskey still in hand.

"Quite alright. Ezra, I told you about your drinking," your father sighs, pulling the glass out of your hand. You let him, watch him down it before setting the glass on the mantle nearby. "Son, I have some urgent business to attend to. Your aunt Katherine, I'm afraid, in the next state over."

"I see."

"I'm leaving immediately. Surely you can wrap up business with these gentlemen?"

"Of - of course," you say, stunned. He's never let you handle business by yourself. He crosses the room and wraps his arms around you for a moment, giving you a solid squeeze. "Thank you."

"Very good. See to Mr. Smith and his associates, then check on the men and geet yourself to bed. And don't drink too much." He gives you a pat on the shoulder, then crosses to the other side of the couch, offering Archibald his hand. "My deepest apologies, Mr. Smith, you know how emergencies are."

"That I certainly do. Have yourself a pleasant trip, Mr. Fairchild."

Your father looks between the two of you one last time, and then he's turning, slipping out the door. You glance at Archibald, but he's already pouring himself a drink, polishing it off immediately.

"Well, in all honesty, it wouldn't be right to do business without your father here," he says, looking towards the door. "Why don't we pick this up some other time?"

"We don't have to." You're between him and the door now. "We can finish - business, I mean, we can finish the deal."

He's still hard. You can't help but look, and he catches you, sidling around you and heading towards the door.

"Really, son, I should--"

You see something glinting in his back pocket, and without thinking, pluck a familiar hunk of gold. The watch is ancient, from before the last great war; Archibald turns as soon as he feels its weight disappear, and then the two of you are just _staring_ at each other.

"This is my grandfather's watch," you say, slowly. "I kept this in the safe behind the--"

Behind the portrait, on the far wall. It's written down in the first few pages of the book he was reading.

You know, suddenly. And with the way his eyes darken, he knows you know.

You turn to shout, but his hand crushes over your mouth before you can get the sound out, dragging your body back against his. You manage a sharp cry in the seconds it takes him to replace his hand from your mouth to your throat, squeezing until your breath comes in a whistle.

"Goddamn pain in my ass," Archibald says, and drags you down to the floor. He's choked people out before, you can tell that much. Ten, thirty seconds and your vision is spotting black at the edges, your nails cutting deep red grooves into his wrist. You don't have the wherewithal to look up at the sound of the door. "Arthur--"

"Dutch? What the hell are you--"

A knife. There's a knife on Archibald's - _Dutch's_ hip.

"Just get the hell over here and help me," Dutch hisses, and Arthur comes to grab your legs, cussing when you wrap them around him and drag him close.

You grab the knife, lash out, and Arthur comes away with a cuss, grabbing for the fresh groove you managed to cut into his side. Dutch grabs your wrist and slams your hand against the floor until your grip loosens on the knife, and then he's grabbing your nearby gun, cracking you across the temple with it.

Blackness.

\---

You wake up hours later, on the back of a horse. Of course.

Your head throbs. You've got a gag in, that's what you notice next, and then comes the realization that you're thrown over the back of someone's horse like a sack of vegetables, sore in all the wrong places. Your wrists are tied, and when you start to squirm, you realize your ankles are too.

Your movement alerts the rider. Arthur looks back at you with a barely concealed sneer.

"Dutch, he's awake."

Dutch. His name isn't Archibald Smith at all. You look up, see Dutch riding up ahead through the cool night, on a horse whiter than snow. He spares you a brief glance, and then he's straightening up again, speeding up his horse a little.

"Now, son, you have to understand - this is _not_ what I had intended for you."

You're a little surprised he's even bothering to fake an apology.

"Sure as hell wasn't," Arthur huffs. "I thought the plan was to rob the man, not steal his kid."

You grunt at Dutch through your gag, watching him trot along on his pretty white horse. You could throw yourself off the horse's back, you suppose, but it wouldn't do you much good with your wrists and ankles tied like this - the most you'd do is inconvenience them, or possibly give yourself a concussion. And you're not entirely sure the slimy character carrying up the rear wouldn't run you down and claim accident.

"The _plan_ was to ingratiate ourselves with the Fairchild estate, then take them for all they're worth. But my good friend Ezra here was a little too attentive for his own good, and saw fit to spoil those plans. Isn't that right?"

You grunt an obscenity through the gag. Dutch must catch it, because he only huffs, spurs his horse on a bit. Micah rides up on your left, eying you.

"I say we put a bullet in his head and dump him before he's trouble."

"Micah, you are one hell of a hand, but your planning leaves something to be desired," Dutch says, and you relax by degrees. Fuck, you hadn't known your family was connoitering with _outlaws._ Thieves, killers. Your father is going to absolutely die when you tell him you had outlaws in your home. "This is an opportunity."

"How so? All I see is some rich boy with a mouth."

"You let me handle our good friend Ezra. Now, there should be an old cabin up ahead in those trees." Dutch takes point, leading you towards the old slave cabins. You'd only seen them once or twice as kids, right on the edge of your family's plantation, but nobody's been out here in years. "Fairchild Sr. is out of town as of an hour ago, visiting sick relatives. The family's sole personal servant is currently out getting piss drunk with Micah. We should be able to get a night in before anyone realizes he's gone."

"Sure," Arthur says, although it sounds more like _shore,_ and follows Dutch up to a tiny house. "Seems small."

"More than enough for the two of us." Arthur and Bill look at Dutch questioningly - the man adds on an explanation, almost as an afterthought. "You boys are heading back to camp to round up our able-bodied and fighting-ready. You lot will meet us tomorrow in a town called Galena, about an hour from here, and our new friend will take the lead from there."

"You sure, Dutch?" Arthur says, pulling up beside him. Dutch doesn't even give you a glance. "He almost gutted me back there. Liable to kill you if you're not careful."

"Come on, cowpoke," Micah drawls, already turning his horse around. "Dutch knows what he can handle."

"That I do." Dutch hitches his horse up outside the house, coming back around to Arthur's horse and grabbing you by the hips. He hauls you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, grunting with the effort, but holding steady. It's… impressive, honestly. "And of all the things I can't handle, one unarmed cattle boy is not one of them. Go on."

Arthur gives the two of you one last look, and then Dutch is turning, heading towards the house with you over his shoulder. You give him a solid kick in the thigh just to do it, and find yourself less than shocked when he strolls in and dumps you on the floor. Your head knocks against the wood, ears ringing as Dutch shuts the door.

"To think I could be sitting by your fireplace right now, drinking scotch and listening to your idiot father talk about polo," Dutch sighs, strolling past you. "You are entirely too smart for your own good, Ezra."

The gag is loose. You work your jaw until it slides out of your mouth, and then you're talking.

"Still upset I found out your little scheme?"

"I wouldn't say _upset._ " He's fussing with something, now - you smell the smoke before you see him with the cigar between his teeth, puffing nonchalantly. "Inconvenienced, at the least."

"You'll never get away with this," you say, sounding like every bit the spoiled rich kid held for ransom. "Either I get loose or you all go down for murder."

"Oh heavens above, not a _murder charge!_ "

Oh god, the way he mocks you. Mocks the idea of the law. God, he's really a crook, isn't he? And you're stuck with him alone for a solid day at the least, even longer with his knuckledragger friends. You watch him walk over to you, his stroll slow and deliberate, and when he reaches you - when he grabs you by the shirt and hauls you to unsteady feet, you lean as far away as you can, betraying your own fear.

You'd liked him, before. Liked his roughness. Now that you know every bit of his threat is real, you recoil from it.

"Boy, you are in a whole new _world_ of trouble." He sets you back against the nearby wall, his fingers ghosting over your throat. You tremble, wrists twisting raw on the rope holding them behind your back as he undoes the first couple buttons of your shirt, exposing a smooth, unmarked collarbone. "And running that sweet little mouth isn't gonna get you out of it."

To your credit, you don't scream when he presses the hot end of the cigar to your skin. You choke on a noise that _could_ be a scream, but it never makes it past your teeth; it grinds out of you instead, the same way Dutch grinds the cigar into you, his eyes on your face the whole time.

Lucky him, it's still lit when he puffs on it. Blows smoke in your face.

"You're an animal," you groan, coughing through the cloud of smoke.

"Aw, you're going to hurt my feelings." Another puff of smoke. He's eying you now, really picking you apart, and it's all you can do not to squirm under his look. "Didn't seem to think so back in your study."

You scowl at him. He lets you go, lets you stagger back into the rough mattress. You've hardly made it up to your knees before he's strolling past you, taking a seat on the bed and dragging you over by your hair.

"Speaking of, I believe you owe me something for all that teasing, boy," he drawls around the end of his cigar, and you pull away sharply. It only really serves to cause you pain, considering the grip he's got on your hair - he drags you back between his spread knees. "Open up."

"Go to Hell," you spit, baring teeth. He laughs, a warm huff of breath, and tightens his grip, yanking your head back at an angle. The other hand plucks the cigar out of his mouth, perching it between his knuckles as he grips your head. "What are you--"

This time, when the lit end of the cigar makes contact with your bare eye, you do scream. You _shriek,_ loud enough to spook the horses outside, twisting in his grip, your vision turning white-hot and then an agonizing, burning blackness on the left side.

You collapse when he lets you go, puffing on his cigar a moment or two while you choke on sobs.

It hurts. God, it hurts.

In fact, it hurts so much that being pulled up by your hair again is negligible in comparison. The end of the cigar is hovering over your right eye now, close enough to feel the heat off it.

"No," you say, head shaking, tears (you hope it's tears) still streaming from your ruined eye. "No, I'll - I'll be good."

"That's good news for both of us." He takes you by the jaw, hooks a thumb on your bottom lip. "Now, open up."

Oh. You do, mouth dropping open obediently as he slides his thumb in, presses down on your tongue. _Oh,_ that's what he wants from you. You wrap your lips around his finger, just like before, sucking diligently at it, and he sighs low and pleased, pets through your hair. His rings catch at the strands.

"Now, you're going to tell me about that secret little cache your family keeps buried out near Galena. Or god help me, I will put out your other eye and spend the rest of our time together using you like a rag, boy, and kill you when I lose interest. Understand?"

You garble words around his thumb. He's nice enough to pull it out, let you speak.

"I don't know where it is," you say, and then when his brows go up, you add, quick. " _But,_ but I know that I'll know it if I see it, so we just - we just have to go there, and I'll find it for you. Just don't touch me, and I'll help you. Alright?"

He studies you for a moment, calculating. You must pass his test, though, because eventually he grabs you by the hair and tosses you to the floor. You lay there and focus on how to breathe while he settles back on the bed, relaxing.

"If you know what's good for you, you'll get some rest." He glances down at you when you roll over, throwing a glance towards the door. "Instead of staying up all night, arguing with yourself about whether or not you got the guts."

You won't do it. He knows you won't do it.

\---

The next morning, Dutch boots you awake. You don't remember falling asleep.

"Get up," he grunts, going at the rope around your ankles with his knife. Your eye is swollen and hot by now, pain radiating through your head enough to make you sick to your stomach. He hauls you to your feet, where you promptly lose your balance and fall on your ass. "Did you hear me? _Get up!_ "

Back to your feet. You manage to stay, this time, watching him crowd beside the window, gun in hand.

"What is it?"

"Someone's here," he says, and levels his gun at you. "You make a move and I won't hesitate to blow the top of your head off. Understand?"

You nod, tightly. Dutch watches through the window as a man on a horse rides by, calling out something. Calling out for someone.

Calling out for _you._

"Don't you goddamn dare," Dutch snaps, and you tremble, caught between the urge to scream and the desire not to be full of holes. "Do you hear me? Don't--"

You scream. Dutch is over in a heartbeat, socking you square in the mouth, but it's enough - the man outside rushes through the door, gun drawn, and sees you.

He's barely turned to you before Dutch sprays the contents of the man's skull all over you, his body dropping like a sack of potatoes.

You try to run. Dutch meets you halfway to the door, and then his weight collapses on top of yours, dragging you down to the floor. You manage to hit him with your bound wrists, a glancing blow off his cheek that is answered with a ringing blow to the temple, so hard your teeth rattle in your skull.

He hits you again, and again, and again. By the time he rolls off of you, chest heaving, your face is a bloody mess, blood pouring out of your nose, from your split lip.

It hurts. Fuck, it hurts.

Voices outside. _Dutch? Dutch, are you there?_ The man himself grabs you by the arm and hauls you bodily outside, hurls you out face first into the dirt, spitting shards of teeth. Those rings of his really are something else.

"Hell, Dutch," Arthur says, sliding off his horse. He's the only one here, you realize, which is - still bad, Dutch was bad enough, but two is still better than three. "He fight you that hard?"

"The fact that he fought at all was _profoundly_ troublesome, Arthur," Dutch says, throwing you a glance. "I did warn him."

"That you did." Arthur strolls up to your side, wraps an arm underneath you and hauls you up to your feel. "Come on, now. Up and at 'em."

He studies your wrecked face for a moment, his eyes falling on your ruined eye. Seems to stop. Seems to think. Then he's dragging you forward by your bound wrists, towards his horse.

"Come on, up you go."

"Let him walk," Dutch says, scraping blood out from under his fingernails with the edge of his knife. "Tie him to the horse. Drag him if you have to."

"Dutch?"

"That was not a question, Arthur," Dutch says, and Arthur seems embarrassed, somehow, maybe for saying anything in the first place. "Go on, get him tied. We'll need to be in Galena by this evening."

Arthur ties solid knots. He loops one end of the rope around your bound wrists, the other to the back of his saddle, and the two of you watch Dutch slide up onto his mount.

"Daylight's burning," he says, starting off at a healthy trot. Arthur matches it, and you're forced to jog to keep up with them. "Let's get a move on."

It's hours like that. Fucking hours walking after them over rocks and through brush, until your feet are practically numb with pain, until you stumble and the horse's canter forces you back to your feet. It goes on until you fall, finally, and can't manage to get back to your feet, and the horse flat out drags you at least twenty feet before Arthur stops.

"This grudge of yours is gonna make us late, Dutch," Arthur says, glancing back at you. You think, maybe, that he's taking pity on you. "No way we're making Galena tonight. Let's set up camp and get there first thing in the morning."

Dutch eyes you, panting on the ground, like he's thinking of making you push through anyway. He's an awful, spiteful man, isn't he?

"I suppose. Arthur, set up camp." You're already in a clearing. It's just a matter of finding somewhere to hitch the horses, which turns out to be a tree a ways off. Once Dutch is off his horse, he makes his way over to you, cutting the ropes connecting you to the horse. Not the ones binding your wrists. "I'll take him down to freshen up."

"Freshen...?"

"You stink," he tells you, matter-of-fact, and you flush. No one's ever had the opportunity to tell you you stink before, you're always so clean. It's embarrassing, in a sense. "Come on, boy."

You follow him down to the nearby river, obedient as anything, plotting all the while. He's still got the gun, nudges you between the shoulders with it when you slow down just a hair too much on the way down to the riverbank.

When you get there, you lift your bound hands.

"What do you want me to do? Bathe with my clothes on?"

"That's exactly what I expect you to do," he drawls, nudging you again. "Unless you'd rather have Arthur strip you buck naked and throw you in?"

That's not what you want. So you wade out into the river, up to your hips, and dip underneath the water's surface, letting the current wash the sweat and blood off you. You're tender about scrubbing your face, palming your injuries - you've never been particularly vain, never had the time, but even now you can't help but mourn your eye. As soon as you get out of this, you'll need a glass one.

Look at you, planning like you're actually going to escape.

"Alright, now, come out of there," Dutch says from the shore, but you don't. You dip under the water's surface again and keep your eyes open, watching his legs plunge into the water as he comes to get you.

When he's close enough, you wrap your bound wrists around one of his feet and _yank._

Dutch plunges into the water, and you're quick to throw your weight on top of him, taking an elbow to the face for your trouble. It hurts, but not enough to keep you from squirming around behind him, bringing your bound wrists down and choking him with the rope tying them together. You bring all of your weight into it, too, dragging Dutch under the surface.

He kicks, swings. You've got him now, holding him down until his struggling starts to weaken.

"Get the hell off him!"

You look up to see Arthur charging towards you, gun drawn. You don't move - well, if anything, you add _more_ weight, plunging Dutch down just that little bit further.

"I'm warnin' you!"

You stare at him. Surely he wouldn't--

The impact hits you hard enough to knock you into the water, and it's pink, pink all around you. If the beating hurt, if the eye hurt, well--

The gunshot to your shoulder? It _fucking hurts._ You swallow a belly full of river water before the two of them finally drag you out, the two of you dropping, soaked and exhausted, on the riverbank while Arthur watches.

"Jesus Christ!" Dutch coughs wetly, pushing himself up. Arthur is there, hovering, attentive as a dog. "Son of a bitch nearly drowned me."

"I know, Dutch. Hell, I told you he was dangerous--"

"Well, he won't be for long," Dutch spits, rolling over to grab you by the shirt. "I'm about tired of you and your damn fussing, _Fairchild._ "

"What're you gonna do with him?" Arthur's voice of reason is quiet, off to your side, but there. "We still need 'im."

"Oh, I haven't forgotten. Ezra _will_ be leading us to his family's cache. But until then--"

Dutch's hands are in your pants, yanking them down around your knees. You kick instinctively, twisting in the bloody dirt, but he brings his gun out and treats you to another blow to the head, your ears ringing.

"Dutch--"

"You are going to teach Ezra a lesson, Arthur," Dutch spits, and shoves you at him. You collide with his chest, your face smearing blood across the fabric. "Fuck him."

"Fuck him?" Arthur sounds surprised, even… uncomfortable? "Dutch, I ain't like that."

"For God's sake, Arthur, you're not picking a date to the town dance. You're making a _point._ " Dutch's voice is a low rumble somewhere behind you. "We have to use what he's afraid of."

"But--"

"It's the only way, Arthur," Dutch says, and it's almost, almost convincing. Must be convincing enough for Arthur here, because he's looking at you with a set jaw, like he's about to do something he doesn't want to. "The quicker you do it, the quicker he straightens up and stops trying to kill us."

"You fucking touch me and I'll kill you both," you snarl, and that show of teeth is enough to motivate Arthur, apparently. He peels you off his chest and pins you in the dirt, on your belly, his weight nearly crushing the air out of you as he settles on your thighs. "Don't--"

"Don't fuss, now," Arthur murmurs, and you look back in time to see Dutch toss him something. The same little tin from before. "Less you fight, the quicker it'll be."

"Don't do this." You shove yourself up on your elbows, legs twisting helplessly under him as he scrapes some of the petroleum jelly out on his finger. "Do _not_ do this, you don't - you don't have to do this!"

Arthur says nothing. Dutch walks around to your front, kneels in front of you, and gets an eyeful of your face when Arthur forces his finger in. He doesn't do this often, you can tell; his touch is less careful than Dutch's, rougher, like he's trying to do this too quickly.

"It hurts," you tell him, and he doesn't visibly react. He slows, however, finger working you easier, and Dutch tuts.

"It's supposed to. Faster, Arthur."

Arthur speeds up again, and you whine low in discomfort, head falling forward. Dutch knots his fingers in your hair and hauls your head up, makes you look at him with tears prickling at your good eye.

"Now, if it was up to me, we'd be sitting by a fire while Arthur cooks dinner." He gives you a pat on the cheek. "Remember that, son."

Two fingers. It hurts, fuck, it _hurts,_ and Dutch lets your head go just in time for you to bite down on the first sob, cheek pressed to the dirt. Arthur slows, but doesn't stop, scissoring his fingers, working them in until you're slick and loose.

"Enough prep. Stick him." Arthur hesitates for a moment, and Dutch's voice comes in a soft lull, encouraging. "Now, Arthur."

He listens, fussing with his pants. More jelly for his cock as he strokes it, you can hear and feel it happening behind you, and then he ruts his cock against the curve of your ass, and you could cry. God, he's huge. He seems aware of it, though, reaching down to work your hole again.

"Not yet, Dutch." He's mumbling, like he doesn't want to argue. "Don't want to split him."

"How thoughtful."

You'll kill Dutch. Before you leave this place, before they get what they want and blow your brains out behind a hill somewhere, you'll kill him. The idea keeps you warm through the icy chill of Arthur's cock bumping your hole.

"Don't." Your voice sounds small as you look back at him, feeling him spread you. "Please don't."

Arthur says nothing, lining up and pushing forward. You feel the head slip in, and that feels like stretch enough, _fuck,_ fuck. But it seems like once he gets started, he has a hell of a time trying to take it slow, a hand on your hip to keep you from squirming away as he drives his hips into yours, another hand closing around your nape and pushing you down.

That groan - bone deep, pleased - makes something in your gut clench. You hate it.

He's too _much._ Too big, too much, can't handle it, and you babble as much as soon as he starts pushing into you in earnest, a splitting discomfort that has you dragging vowels with every twitch of his hips. He seems to be in just as much discomfort as you, although of another kind, his groan dragging.

"How is he?" Dutch is standing again, fussing with a cigar. "Nearly had him day before yesterday. Tight, ain't he?"

"Real tight," Arthur huffs, pressing in another inch. You choke on another sob, and he stops, his hand stroking down from your nape, down your back, up under your shirt. "Easy."

"Go to Hell," you tell him, and he huffs behind you, but doesn't punish you for the insult like Dutch. Just pushes in until he's seated in you, and you're _ah ah ahing_ the entire time, gasping around the sheer size of him.

You feel raw. Stretched open. _Filled,_ so full you can hardly think, and it's the last one that you're shamefully aroused by, the way it feels to have a man inside you, hot and panting at your back. Under any other circumstances, you would love this.

Even now, you realize, your cock is half-hard. Fuck.

Arthur snaps his hips, and you cry out, equal parts startled and pained, the discomfort of every movement still fresh. He pulls out to the tip, pushes in smooth, does it again, and you're panting into the dirt now, trying not to think. Not about your father, who might not even know you're gone; not about Arthur, hot and heavy at your back, moving in slow thrusts that put your teeth on edge; not about Dutch, who is watching with keen interest, his cigar down by half. He must really be puffing on it.

It doesn't hurt anymore. Feels… strange. Not bad strange, not _good_ strange, just - different.

Then Arthur gives a sharp snap of his hips into just the right spot, and your voice cracks on a high, broken noise.

"Oh- _hoh._ " Dutch leans down in front of you again, grabs you by the chin to steer your head up. "Like that, do ya?"

Arthur's hand slips underneath you, closes around your cock. You jump at the touch, hips stuttering into his hand before you can get yourself under control, and realize how hard you are. And fuck, his hand is so rough, feels so _good--_

"Oh _god,_ " you sob, pleasure thick in your voice as Arthur fucks into you again. He's so big that he can't help but hit all the right spots, and you arch your back, panting glassy-eyed into the dirt.

"Hell, yer tight," Arthur pants at your back, settling into a rhythm now. His panting is soft, but it's definitely there, warm at your nape as he leans over you and wraps an arm around your neck. Gentle, though, just where you can sit your chin in the crook of his elbow, his body pressing into yours in all the spots that matter most. "You hear me, boy?"

" _Yeeeees,_ " you whimper, fingers scrabbling at the dirt, and he huffs against your neck, bites down there. You arch into it with a gasp, your hips pushing back against his, and he makes a noise in his throat, the next roll of his hips coming harder. "Ah, _yes--_ "

"Well," Dutch purrs, fingers carding through your hair again, "if you're _this_ willing--"

A rustle. You look up to come eye-level with Dutch's cock, and his eyes are dark when you look up at him, panting, your good eye hazy.

"--then you shouldn't have any problem using that mouth."

He's not entirely hard, but he's close. You let your mouth hang open stupidly for him, and he huffs a warm laugh, tips your chin up and guides his cock in. He tastes like salt and skin and when you close your lips around him, not sure what to do with your mouth, he flutters a sigh and works his dick in deeper, until you nearly gag.

"That's it."

"God, Dutch," Arthur moans, and he makes some absolutely beautiful noise. It's kind of hard to keep track of what they're doing when you're getting Eiffel Tower'd, but there's a point where they both lean in and stop moving, their breaths held, a soft _mmm_ on Arthur's end that sounds more than satisfied.

You shouldn't be surprised they're a thing, you suppose, since they're both so happy to fuck men. You just didn't expect to be in the middle of any torrid gay relationships lately.

They break with a soft noise, and Dutch pulls back licking his lips, working his cock down your throat until you gag. He does it again, and then one more time before pulling back and letting you choke and gasp weakly around him.

"You're awful at this," Dutch tells you, and yanks your head back until your lips are just wrapped around the tip. "Stay right there and use your tongue."

You can do that, at least. You lavish attention around the tip of his cock, sucking as hard as he seems to like as he strokes himself, and even manage to work a flutter of a sigh out of him - Arthur is a different story behind you, pounding away, his breath a steady pant in your ear.

You taste it before anything. Dutch pulls you off in time to throw a hot rope of come over your face, and you spit out what managed to get into your mouth, good eye clenched shut as he paints your face. It's a hot, disgusting sensation.

"God _damn,_ " Dutch sighs, stroking himself to completion. He pulls back as soon as he's done, righting himself, pulling his clothes back into order. "Least I didn't have to bust every bone in your damn face for using those teeth."

"Seems like - a hell of a gamble," Arthur pants, and then groans, pushing you back down, pulling your hips up to hit the angle that makes you tighten up deliciously around his cock. You forget about the mess on your face soon enough, and then you're just crying out, squeezing around Arthur's dick as he drives you closer and closer towards your limit. He's right there with you, grunting. "Hell--"

It's good. Feels good. Shouldn't feel good, and something sick twists in your chest when you remember what they're doing to you, but you can close your eyes and tense your jaw and focus on the blinding waves of pleasure, your legs twitching on every thrust. It's just - it feels--

It feels so good.

"'M close," Arthur huffs in your ear, low, where Dutch can't hear it. "You want I should--"

"Not inside," you gasp, and Dutch laughs, a cold sound from somewhere off to your right.

"Where else? You wouldn't have our good friend Arthur spill his seed in the dirt when there's a perfectly good hole right here."

"Hell," Arthur grunts, and fucks into you harder, until your teeth are practically rattling in your head. Your moans are loud enough to disturb wildlife now, bird scattering on a particularly high-pitched cry; Arthur buries his face in your neck, digs his teeth in hard a moment later. His hand wraps around your cock, strokes you long and firm.

It's all you need. You come all over his hand, on his dick, sobbing. (It shouldn't be this _good._ ) Arthur isn't long after, groaning into your shoulder as he spills, hips slamming to a stop and pressing in deep.

He waits a few moments before pulling out, but just a few. You get to lay there in your own mess, gripping your shot shoulder, the collective ache building up all over until you can hardly breathe for it.

Arthur picks himself up, wordless. Rights his clothes. Dutch isn't even looking at the two of you now.

"Take him back to the river, clean him up. And _watch him,_ " Dutch adds, pointing his cigar at you. "And if I hear of any trouble from you, you and this cigar will become _intimately_ acquainted, you hear?"

You nod tightly, letting Arthur haul you up to your feet. You scramble to put your clothes back in order, silent, easy enough for Arthur to push towards the river again. Your clothes are still soaked from the first time, but now you pull them out of the way to clean their come off you, out of you.

You feel sick. You're trembling, vaguely, and it's not from the cold.

You come back to Arthur's side just as quiet, and with Dutch a ways back, sitting by the fire, the two of you can talk without him listening. He leans in, voice low.

"Didn't want to do that to ya."

"Didn't seem to bother you much," you say, and Arthur huffs, at a loss for words. "I don't need your pity."

"Sure as hell looks like you do." A beat. "Ya know, the easier you are with this whole _family gold_ business, the easier he'll be on you."

"As if you're not going to shoot me as soon as I tell you where it is."

Arthur says nothing. Just closes his hand around the back of your neck and urges you on, back to the camp.

"Come on. He's waitin'."

They both get bedrolls. You curl up near the fire on the dirt, grateful just to be left alone, and examine your gunshot wound. It manages to cut through just the meat, so that's good; it still hurts, it'll need cleaning, but it's nothing that'll incapacitate you.

Not that you're sure it matters, at this piont. Healthy or not, fighting doesn't seem to get you far with these men. God knows what the rest of his little gang would do to you for fussing.

The two of them talk about nothing in particular while you drift off to a fitful, restless sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

You wake up with them at dawn, bleary and sore.

"I imagine you're sore after last night," Dutch tells you, cheery. "You can ride with Arthur."

"Thanks," you sneer, and he flashes you a toothy smile before he turns his horse around, setting off. Arthur helps you onto the back of his horse, your wrists still bound in front of you, and Dutch is unfortunately right. You're sore, and the way the horse bounces you is a less than comfortable affair.

It's a full-body kind of sore too, not just _there_ \- your eye is swollen, constantly weeping some clear fluid you have to wipe away like tears. Your head pounds. Your arm isn't bleeding anymore, but the wound is open, throbbing.

Everything hurts. But that's just how the life out here _in the rough_ is supposed to be, isn't it? Discomfort and misery? You don't belong here.

"Are you going to let me go?" Your voice is uneven, tired. "When this is all over."

"Of course. Assuming you don't give us any trouble, that is." Dutch looks back, his tone easy, but he's watching your reactions closely. "If this stash of your family's is what these papers say it is, we'll have enough money to disappear off the face of the whole damn continent."

"Amen to that," Arthur rumbles, and an unsteady step from the horse has you leaning against him for support. He tenses, says nothing about it. "What's this stash supposed to be, anyway?"

"Gold, my boy," Dutch says, damn near jovial. "When the Fairchilds first arrived here generations ago, they struck it rich practically overnight. This boy's records say the source was a little underground gold vein nearby, where the gold has been mined and kept ever since."

"They kept the gold _in_ the mine? What if somebody found it?"

"It's in tall grass," you say. "In an area that's difficult to traverse, in farmland we own. No one has any reason to be out there."

"Making it an absolutely perfect target," Dutch adds, slowing his horse down. "One we cannot afford to ignore. But there will be resistance."

"My father sets a guard."

"A three-man team, to be more specific. Now, I would normally send you to handle this by yourself, Arthur, but we have reason to believe these men are trained killers."

"Retired killers," you say, trying to lower their guard. "Has-beens."

"And killers nonetheless." Dutch looks to Arthur. "Which is why we're sending everything we've got at 'em. Keep your wits about you, Arthur."

"Sure." Arthur glances over his shoulder at you. "What'll you do when we cut you loose?"

"Flag someone down and get home," you say, and frown when they both laugh at you. "What?"

"Son, anyone you flag down around here is gonna take one look at you, and then take everything you've got," Dutch says, looking you over once again. "Pitiful."

"Damn pitiful," Arthur drawls.

"Well, not everyone out there is like _you_ people. Killers and rapists."

"You brought every bit of last night on yourself, boy," Dutch says, light and easy as the three of you cross a brook. "Although from the sounds of it, I'm starting to doubt we did anything you weren't already hoping for."

Your face burns. It's not - like that, you want to say, you didn't ask for any of that. Rather than try to argue, you hold your silence and listen to them drift off on some other avenue of conversation. They talk about where they're going to go with all the gold, and Dutch makes conversation about possibly buying an island out somewhere in the South Pacific.

"I'm telling you, Arthur, with this score we'll be out of the country in days. We will _finally_ be free to build ourselves a proper life somewhere."

"Sounds nice. We can finally settle down after all this mess."

"I know it's been a struggle, but you have to have faith." He looks back, his look firm. "I will _always_ get us through the storm."

"Always, Dutch."

They're awful men, but you wonder about them now. Where they came from, why they're like this. Surely men don't turn out like this without some sort of tragic crime in their youth. And when they're talking to each other, they almost sound like human beings.

Dutch is a poetic man. You wonder about the man he could've been, if he weren't like _this._ An actor, maybe, or a politician. He's certainly impassioned enough, calculating enough. And Arthur--

You study the man's face while he's focusing on the road. He's terribly handsome, now that you're actually looking at him, with a strong jaw and blue eyes, stubble that you remember dragging over your neck last night. You hadn't gotten a chance to look at him.

Oh god, last night. You feel dirty.

"So are we just - going to pretend last night didn't happen?"

"What do you want, a eulogy?" Dutch says, brow rising, and you feel stupid for saying anything at all. He makes you feel that way a lot. You wonder if it's the same for Arthur. "You'll live, son."

"Is it going to happen again?" you ask, a little harried, a little too sharp.

"I don't know. Is it?"

Fuck. Okay. You drop your head and swallow thickly, and the three of you fall into silence for a good few minutes. You wouldn't exactly call it comfortable, but it's not unbearable either.

"I'm going on ahead," Dutch says, finally, breaking the silence. "Shouldn't be far to Galena now. I'll meet up with the group and get them ready. Watch him, Arthur."

"Sure," Arthur drawls, and the two of you watch Dutch tap his heels on his horse, spurring it on.

You wait until he's disappeared over the horizon to talk.

"You could just let me go," you begin, and he laughs. "I'm serious. Just say I got away from you."

"Let me guess - you promise you won't tell anyone about what happened, you'll cover for us, _and_ you'll let us have the gold."

"Well--"

You don't have a rebuttal for that. He knows your scheme before you can even spin it, and your mind claws for alternatives instead, any way to get you out of here, away from them.

"Listen, Mr. Fairchild - Dutch? He's not a man to be crossed. 'Specially not lately." He speeds the horse on a little bit. "If I was you, I'd do what he says. He ain't a man without reason."

"Are you sure?"

Arthur huffs, says nothing.

\---

There's a ragged band of men talking to Dutch outside the local saloon when the two of you arrive. A man with a grisly scar across his face raises his brows when he looks at you.

"Damn, Dutch."

"Would you believe he fought like a tiger?" Dutch drawls, glancing at you. "Nearly killed Arthur and I once each. For being a city boy, you sure do like trying to kill folk, don't you?"

"Just you," you say, offering a smile, less than friendly, and Dutch matches it.

"Still say we should kill 'im after we're through here," Micah says from somewhere in the back, and Dutch doesn't correct him. Just eyes you, meaningfully. "We gonna do this thing or what?"

"Gentlemen, you all know the plan - we ride into the area, kill the guards, and find the mine. Simple stuff. Ezra here is familiar with the area, and will lead us into the mine proper. We'll load up the gold and be long gone by sunrise."

A mountain of a man on an equally sizable horse trots up, eyes you.

"What are we gonna do with him after?"

"Haven't decided yet." Dutch eyes you as well, and you try to sit up straight and stay brave behind Arthur. "Suppose it's up to the boy. Whether or not this gets done easy, it's getting done."

"I'll take you there," you say, raising your hands in mild surrender. "And like you said - you'll be long gone before I can walk back to civilization."

"We'll see," Arthur drawls, pulling the horse forward. "Now, if you don't mind, the sooner we get this over with and get him off the back of my horse, The better."

"Well, Mr. Morgan is feeling eager today. Let's all take a note, shall we, boys?"

With a sharp noise to spur the horse on, Dutch is off, and the rest of you follow with him.

You ride for an hour outside Galena. You wish they wouldn't try to make conversation.

"How familiar are you with the area, Mr. Fairchild?" Dutch asks, voice rising.

"I used to play there as a boy, when my father and grandfather were excavating the last of the gold." You're leaning against Arthur at this point, tired of riding, not brave enough to say so. "I can tell you where to go once I see some landmarks."

"Why didn't your folks just cash in the gold?" Arthur asks, glancing back. "Seems a hell of a lot safer than leaving your gold sitting around."

"My grandfather didn't trust banks, and my father didn't want to break something that isn't broken, as the saying goes. And we hardly need it these days, with the cattle."

"Which is why you don't mind losin' it?"

"In exchange for my safety? Absolutely."

"It's a good thing you see reason," Dutch chimes in. "Your father will understand, I'm sure. Hell, if all of this works out, he might not even notice you were gone."

He says that in that same conspiratorial tone from the party, but this time it's cruel, mocking. You'll never look the same again. Everyone who lays eyes on you for the next who the hell knows _how_ long is going to know some awful violence was inflicted on you, and you doubt your sight is ever coming back completely.

"Let's hope so," you say, noticing how familiar the surroundings are becoming. Good. It means you're close. And the closer you are, the closer you are to freedom.

Davey is the first of your father's men to greet the group, along with Jonah and Miguel. He sees you first, the condition you're in, rides up with his gun drawn.

"It's time to get to work, boys," Dutch says, pulling his gun.

Miguel is the first to die, but he fights the hardest. Jonah runs, and Arthur runs him down. Davey--

"Please, mister, don't shoot me," he sobs, clutching his bleeding side. He'd managed to take a potshot at Dutch, and Arthur had shot him off his horse, down into the dirt. Davey's no older than twenty-two, and now he looks at you, wide-eyed. "Tell 'em, tell 'em not to Mr. Fairchild--"

You lift your bound hands, helplessly, and watch Dutch shove the boy back down into the dirt.

"Enough wasting time. Where's the gold?"

"The - gold?" Davey asks, looking at him. "Miguel and Jonah, they - them'n the ones before 'em all took it for themselves years ago. Ain't been no gold in that mine in ten years."

"They _what?_ " you bark, and Davey shrinks. "And you didn't say anything?"

"They said they'd kill me."

"And now _these_ people are going to kill us both."

You look at Dutch, pinching at his eyes like he's tired, trying to keep his breathing even. He, however, says nothing, just looks back up at Davey and blows the top of his head off. You look away from the sight, stomach churning.

Micah speaks up first.

"Well, what the hell do we do now?"

"We ride back," Dutch says, slow and even, "and we regroup. This is just a temporary setback. We have other leads. John, Micah, Bill - the four of us are going home. And Arthur--"

Dutch looks at you, then Arthur. His voice is low.

"Take care of our little ball and chain."

"Sure, Dutch," Arthur says, his voice unreadable. "I'll see you by morning."

"Wait--"

You start to say something, anyway, but Dutch turns his horse and starts off, the rest of his men following behind him. That just leaves you and - Arthur, who's turning his horse the opposite direction, drifting off the trail and wading into the grasslands. It's remote out here. Quiet.

No one's going to find your body out here for months. Maybe years. Maybe never.

But no one's stopping you from getting off this horse, either. You dump yourself over the side and start sprinting, bound hands clutched to your chest as Arthur shouts after you.

But there's an issue here - you're used to the comforts of the city, of civility, and Arthur is used to trudging through the mud like an _animal,_ so you're at a disadvantage out in this terrain.

He catches up to you, in time. His weight crashes down on yours, drags you to the dirt, and you proceed to put up the best fight of your life. You even hit him a couple times, hard enough to win grunts.

He only has to hit you once. It lands square in your nose, and the pain whites out your vision, leaving you slumping and boneless underneath him. The sun is setting by now, light starting to fail, but you can still make out his features under the brim of his hat, the bright blue of his eyes and the way his breaths come in pants through slightly parted lips.

You snarl at him, baring teeth. He gives you a look much the same, arm cocked like he's prepared to knock the piss out of you all over again.

"You done?"

"Go to Hell," you spit, and Arthur grabs you by your bound wrists, pins them above your head. You go to knee him in the gut, but he's too fast for you, shoves your leg aside and fits himself between your thighs, pinning you down. "You can--"

Go to Hell. But you realize the moment he does that he's half-hard, pressed against your thigh, and you breathe in sharply same as he pulls away.

"You like this," you say, no small amount of wonder in your voice at the realization, and Arthur flushes. "Or is it me?"

"Shut your damn mouth already," he grumbles, but he's eying you now, like he's not sure what exactly he wants to do with you. He reaches for his gun, and you link your other leg around him, covering the holster with your thigh. "Get off--"

"You don't have to do this," you whisper, harried, as he pushes at your leg. "You can - we can work something out, we're civilized men."

"Sure ain't acting like one. Now _get off._ "

He pushes your leg out of the way, gets his hand on his gun. You hear the revolver click a moment before it's leveled between your eyes, cool metal pressed to overhot skin. Your heart pounds. Your breath comes shallow.

Oh, god.

"Any last words?" Arthur asks, and you have about a half a second to think of something to say.

When you do, your voice is surprisingly even. Maybe it's what saves you.

"I can make myself useful." Arthur pauses, processing this, and you press. "Surely there's something you need that I could provide. Until your gang leaves Saint Denis. We both win that way, don't we?"

He huffs a little laugh, dismayed.

"Why would I want a city boy who don't know nothin' nippin' at my heels all day long?"

"I can learn. Whatever you need me to." Your voice is low, urgent. You relax underneath him, making yourself as nonthreatening as possible. "I'll stay at the camp while you're riding. Wash your clothes, go hunting, do whatever Dutch needs."

"And when I'm there?"

"I'll do whatever you need," you say.

Arthur eyes you for a long moment, studies your face. Huffs a laugh.

"Like a little wife."

You flush, mouth dropping open in outrage. This is - a business deal, a matter of life and death, not _womanly duties._ But before you can come up with a proper argument, his thumb is pressed to your bottom lip, slipping between your teeth. He presses down on your tongue.

Oh.

"Ah," you mumble around Arthur's thumb, tasting the salt on his finger. _Ah,_ so he was interested the other night, despite himself. _Ah,_ he's still interested, despite himself.

You have an out.

Arthur's eyes burn, shadowed under his brim as you close your mouth around his thumb the way you had Dutch's, sucking. There's a little more experience to this time, though, and certainly more eagerness - it's hard not to be eager about survival, even if it means doing certain things you won't ever, ever admit to later in life.

And he's a bad man, but he's not a _bad looking_ man. You've already done this once. You can do it again.

Arthur still has his gun in hand, but it's off to the side now, not presently threatening. You palm his stomach, but it's difficult with your hands tied like this.

"Untie me."

"Think I like you better tied," Arthur replies, easy, and before you know it, he's worked a hand underneath you and flipped you onto your stomach. (Are you light, or is he just brimming with cowboy strength?) Once the meaning of the words reaches you, you fluster, hands squeezing into fists in front of you while he presses you down into the grass. "Less trouble that way."

"Son of a bitch."

He laughs, tugs your pants down over your ass. You tense immediately at the touch of cool night air, and squirm when he grabs a handful of your cheek, groping roughly.

"Not half bad," Arthur drawls. "Now that I really look at ya. Still gotta pay you back for runnin' somehow, though."

You don't get a chance to react. He brings his hand down in a sharp open-palmed smack across your ass, and you yelp, trying to get your feet under you to pull away. He grabs you by the back of the neck, shoves you down and pins you there while he brings his arm back and does it again, to the other cheek.

And again. And again.

When were you last spanked like this? Back when your age was in the single digits, surely, you were always a quick learner. You bite down on your lip, try to muffle the high-pitched, throaty grunts and occasional slip of a whine on every stinging smack, your fists knotted in the grass.

He pushes you until you finally cry out, squirming against his grip. Then he squeezes your abused cheeks, and you cuss at the sting, squirming under his grip.

Arthur leans down, voice low in your ear, husky.

"That's a good look on you."

He's enjoying this. A lot. Maybe too much. You wonder how long it's been since he's had a willing body at his mercy - not Dutch's, fickle and controlling as he is, but someone he can really handle how he likes.

"Are you done?" you spit, but it's a little watery. He huffs a laugh, sits up.

"Alright, alright." You try to sit up, but he pushes you back down. "Down, boy."

"You--" You splutter, half-turning to throw him a look. "You can't talk to me like that. Like a dog."

"Don't see how you're gonna stop me," Arthur drawls, easy. "Now settle down, _boy._ "

You're about to argue some more, but he thumbs your hole, spreads you, and you stop short with a shuddery breath. You're well aware he could tear you apart tonight - and for a second, where he nudges you with a dry fingertip, you're afraid he will.

But he pulls back, in time. You let yourself relax as he sits behind you, fussing with something. When his fingers press against you again, they're slick with petroleum, pressing in. You gasp, hands tightening in the grass.

"Wait--"

Last night, slicking you up had been an awful, uncomfortable affair. But he slips his fingers into you easier than he had the first time, two of them, and you're - still loose from last night, you realize with a full-body flush, cheeks prickling with heat. Not enough to fuck, but enough that he can start working you with his fingers immediately.

"Oh shit," you breathe, and Arthur laughs, teeth scraping at your nape.

"Most things are better when Dutch ain't breathin' down your neck, in my experience," he says, pumping his fingers, and you squeal. It's a short, choked off, _humiliating_ noise, but the friction when he gets rough like that is absolutely delicious, your body squeezing down around him. "That's it, just like that."

"You don't--" A gasp. Your voice sounds less pointed than you'd like when you do manage to speak. "I'm not going to panic, you don't have to - to say that--"

Arthur's not as good at this as Dutch. Less practiced. Less skilled. But he must know enough, because he starts to curl his fingers, shifting around until he finds the angle that has your back cracking in a tight arch, a strangled noise in your throat.

Once he finds it, he presses down, rubs his fingers in slow, firm circles. You're incoherent down in the dirt, face buried in the grass, thighs quaking from how tense you are all over.

"You sure?" Arthur drawls, quietly smug, and pulls his fingers out of you. You take the break gratefully, sitting up a little to watch him work his pants down. "Sounds like you could use some calming down."

"That was you, that wasn't--"

"Down," Arthur says, pulling his cock out, and you reluctantly get back into position, face down in the dirt, ass in the air. It's--

It's embarrassing. Humiliating, even. Your cock is hard between your legs, painfully so, and you stroke yourself while he works behind you, tossing the empty petroleum jelly tin into the dirt beside your head when he's through with it. You make a low, pleasant sound when you push your cock through your fist, and Arthur moves forward at it, hand smoothing up the center of your back.

"You make some nice sounds. Keep it up." He settles onto his knees behind you, something warm nudging at your hole, and you remind yourself to breathe. "Easy, now."

This time, he doesn't give you much time to adjust. You feel the head slip in first, but he doesn't stop there, pushing forward, inch by inch. There's no pain this time, amazingly, but that doesn't mean your body doesn't protest the stretch, a thread of burning discomfort as he bottoms out with a grunt.

It's amazing how much easier it is this time. Is it because you've done it before, or because Dutch isn't here?

Arthur pulls out halfway, buries himself again with a short little snap of his hips, and you cry out, tightening around him. Feels - different this time, right away, like your body is primed for this. Your cock twitches in your hand, a low sound rushing out of you when he pulls out to the tip, nice and slow.

He presses back in with a sharp slap of his hips, and your moan is sharp, helpless. Arthur laughs in your ear, a low rumble that has something in your chest trembling.

"That good, huh?"

"Shut up--"

It's good. So much better than the first time. Arthur balances his weight over you with a hand on the dirt, and you reach up and wrap your hands around it, gripping desperately while he fucks you in slow, heavy rolls of his hips. Like he's taking his time, here.

Like he's enjoying himself. The thought does something to you, but you're hardly in any mindset to think on why, squeezing tighter around him, liking the way he groans and dips his head, lips against your neck.

He presses them there, like a kiss. Then lower, down where the collar of your shirt covers, and bites down, a slow, firm press of teeth that has you squirming back against him. You're working your cock steadily now, panting, leaking into the dirt. God, you're close--

"Calm down," Arthur says in your ear, his hand wrapping around your wrist and holding your hand still. You growl in frustration at him, but he just bites down on your neck again, sucking a bruise that'll stay with you for weeks. "Not 'til I tell you to."

"What?"

"I _said_ you ain't finishing until I say you can," Arthur drawls, slow, like you're stupid. "You ask me permission first. Understand?"

"I - yes. Alright."

"Good," he huffs, and lets his head hang, all his focus apparently shifting into the way he fucks you. Short, hard thrusts now, and they come fast, like he's drilling into you. It's hard, dirty. There's no romance in this, it isn't lovemaking.

He's _fucking_ you, and the realization just adds to the sounds you make.

God, the sounds you make. You wish they were soft, waifish gasps and whimpers, you could live with those kinds of sounds - it's this deep, gutteral moaning you're doing that your ego can't abide, mindless dragging noise that interrupts occasionally with a higher-pitched yelp when he hits that sweet spot again. Shameless. Wanting.

But it's good, is the thing. It's so good.

"Arthur!"

"Again," he grunts against your neck, panting, his voice like gravel. "Say it again."

"Ar--" You're interrupted by a groan, head dropping. "Arthur, please--"

"That's a good boy," he mumbles, stroking your cock slow. Unforgivingly so. It's electric, and your hips jolt, uncertain which sensation you want to push into more. "Just lie down and let me handle you."

That sounds so nice. Letting someone else do all the thinking, all the work for once. So you do, body tense and trembling, mind going slack as you surrender to the feeling, coming up quick on an orgasm that's going to absolutely wreck you.

"Arthur, I'm close, I--"

"What did I say? You're not close to anythin' until I say you are," he huffs in your ear, and that absolutely should not make your cock twitch in his grip. You're desperate, but you're finding yourself even more desperate to please, throwing your head back to press it to his shoulder, your breath coming quick. "You're gonna wait."

"I _can't,_ " you whine, and he bites down on your neck again, works his cock into you toe-curlingly slow. "I - please--"

But he isn't answering, lavishing the spot on your neck with attention, lips and tongue and the slightest drag of teeth as he grinds his hips into a spot that makes your vision flicker out for a moment. Fuck, you're _close,_ and you twitch helplessly under him while he makes thorough use of you.

He's drawing this out, you realize. Either to torment you, or maybe to savor the moment. It doesn't matter. You're waiting either way, clenching tighter around him, quietly relishing the way he groans low and sweet in your ear.

It's so good, and that's - it's bad, because you could learn to miss this. Not him, but _this,_ being held down by a man and fucked, completely lost in the feeling. You could learn to _want_ this.

Shit.

Arthur snaps his hips particularly hard, and you forget all about that. About everything. Your world narrows down rapidly to his body pressed against yours and the way he works his cock into you, the way he's breathing hard in your ear, the occasional wisp of voice slipping through. Soft groans.

He's close. The idea shouldn't push you so close to the edge, but it does, and your moan drags.

Arthur's hand starts up again on your cock, stroking quick and loose. You're so close you can taste it, mindless of how loud you're being now, hips working back into his desperately.

"Now," he breathes in your ear, and catches the shell between his teeth, and you come.

It's a good thing there's nobody out here for miles. You're awful loud.

But it's good, _god,_ is it good. So much better than the chaste high society girls you've chased in the past, or your hand late at night, a shivering, mindless climax that leaves you choking on your moans, pressing back into Arthur for support.

He fucks you right through it, shoves you down into the dirt and slams his hips into yours with an obscene smack of skin on skin. It's just barely starting to get raw and uncomfortable when he suddenly stops, burying himself deep with a dragging moan of his own.

He flattens you to the ground, wraps an arm around your throat from behind and holds you against him. It's… not bad?

You're still trembling, your breath coming in gasps, feeling his chest heave against your back.

It's not bad.

Arthur takes a few moments to gather himself before slipping out of you, watching you sprawl boneless across the ground. You're unbelievably tired after the past few days, and this certainly hasn't helped.

You make a noise when Arthur spreads you again, looking at his handiwork.

"I think we can come to some kind of arrangement," he says, and pulls away. You listen to him put his clothes back in order, and you pick yourself up to do the same, brushing the dirt and grass off your clothes before you pull them up. "'Course, that's if Dutch doesn't pitch a fit when I come back with you in tow. We'll see."

"Just - talk to him. Eugh." You feel disgusting, sweaty and sticky and… just awful, really. "Do you have a canteen?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Give it to me. I need to clean up."

He laughs at you, standing, brushing the dirt off his knees. You look at him, confused, at least until he comes over and hauls you up by your arm. Your pants are in place again, but he's interrupted you halfway through buttoning your shirt, and you have to start the last button over again.

"It's half a day back to camp. You can wait."

"But--"

"You can _wait,_ " Arthur drawls, pointedly, and you fall into flustered silence, finishing the buttons on your shirt. Looks like you won't have any marks showing, that's good. You wonder if he did it on purpose. "Come on, we're heading out."

He whistles. You watch his horse trot up from god knows where, and just like that, he's hauling himself up onto its back, like he didn't just get done having sex in the dirt. Like it's just another one of his errands taken care of. You just stare at him for a moment, bewildered, before he whistles again. At you.

"Come on, boy," he cajoles, and you huff, walking over to pull yourself up onto the horse behind him.

"I have a name."

"Fairchild, right?" He huffs a little laugh, spurring the horse on. "Fancy name you got there."

"It's _Ezra._ "

"Ezra, then." He says the name like he's testing it out. You're trying not to think about how disgusting you still feel in your clothes, how badly you're aching for a proper bath right about now. "Well, Ezra, you can spend the ride trying to think of how you're gonna convince Dutch to take you on."

Convince him. You honestly hadn't expected to get this far, much less get to Dutch.

You swallow, thickly.

"I'll manage," you say, uncertain. Maybe he picks up on that.

"He ain't an unreasonable man. A _bad_ man, maybe, but we're all bad men." Arthur speeds the horse up, and you work the rope around your wrists loose, letting it flutter down to the ground. You stretch, but try to do it subtly. Wouldn't want to get tied up again. "I'm sure he can be reasoned with. Just depends on how good you are at reasonin', I suppose."

You'd say you're pretty confident in your abilities. You don't say as much to Arthur now though, and the two of you fall into a comfortable silence while you try to figure out how you're going to sweet talk the king of crooks into letting you live.

Hopefully it goes better than literally everything else going on in your life lately.


	4. Chapter 4

The moment you ride into their camp, you feel like an outsider.

There's maybe twenty of them in all huddled away in this swampy manor. Arthur calls it Shady Belle. You call it a dump. But they've tried their best to make it livable, you suppose, and that's something.

You miss your home. Your bed. Your booze. Arthur hitches his horse, then leads you up to the mansion itself.

"Go on inside. Dutch'll be upstairs," Arthur tells you, giving you a push.

"You're not coming with me?"

"I'll be up," he drawls, already turning his back on you. "Just mind your manners and tell him the same thing you told me, and you'll be fine."

You wonder whether or not he means it.

You don't have to wait long for your welcome. As soon as you and Micah recognize each other, he's grabbing you up by the neck of your shirt and dragging you through the house.

"The hell are you still doing alive?"

"I've been asking myself that every day," you drawl, shrugging off his touch. "Take me to Dutch."

"Believe me, city boy - Dutch ain't got no patience for men that don't _die_ when they're supposed to."

"Then this should be a quick meeting," you reply, at the top of the stairs. "Take me to him."

Micah grumbles, says nothing else. Leads you to a door. You knock crisply, and of all the people van der Linde expected to see when he opens that door, you were likely the absolute last.

"The cowpoke dragged him back," Micah says, giving you a slight push.

"I can see that." Dutch eyes you for a long moment, before stepping aside. "Let's talk, Fairchild."

Either this is the moment that saves your life, or the one that puts you in a shallow ditch later this evening. You swallow, step past him, and try not to lose your nerve when he shuts the door behind you.

"Guessing Arthur found some reason to keep you."

He doesn't sound all that pleased. You smile your best, trying to turn this around.

"Until you leave Saint Denis, that's all."

"And you just planned on walking into my camp and telling me you're staying?" Oh, shit, he's irritated. He eyes you, knows the way you're looking at the gun on his hip, wary. "You've got some balls, Fairchild."

"It's about all I've got these days," you say, and he huffs a little laugh, low. "Surely you could use one more set of hands."

"For what? You gonna wash laundry and mend clothes with the women? Peel potatoes with Pearson?" Another laugh, this one mocking. "What exactly do you think you're _good for,_ son?"

You narrow your eyes, straightening your back.

"I can shoot." He glances back to you, mild surprise on his face. "Yes, I know, it doesn't look like it. But I can. My father and I went hunting often."

"You can shoot," Dutch drawls, like he isn't convinced. "Hell of a difference between shooting deer and the kind of shooting we do."

"I can shoot," you say again, deliberate, and he seems to relent. To think about it, even in passing, and that's all you can really ask for right now. That he considers you. "I can do anything you want me to."

Dutch takes a step closer, and you stay carefully still. Try not to move, even when he thumbs the collar of your shirt down, gets an eyeful of the teeth-shaped bruises.

"I can see that," he says, letting go of you. You try not to flush and fail miserably, reaching up to straighten your shirt. "I suppose I can let Arthur have his fun. But you'll work while you're here, and you'll do whatever the hell I say, and when we leave, you'll get gone."

"Understood, sir," you say, and you swear he lightens up, just the littlest bit. Must like respect, no matter how grudgingly it comes.

"Then go get that eye looked at, for Chrissakes." He gives you a slight push back towards the door. Dismissed, you suppose. "And Mr. Pearson needs meat. Deer, rabbits, birds, whatever you can kill. Put something on our dinner table tonight, Mr. Fairchild."

"Right," you say, stepping back towards the door. "I will. Thank you, Dutch."

After everything he's done to you, the words are bitter. But they're keeping you alive, and you manage them anyway, quickly retreating from Dutch's room. You haven't decided whether or not you're going to try to shoot him before you leave - would probably be doing the world a favor, in all honesty.

But that's for later. Right now, you have a _miss Grimshaw_ to talk to about your eye, apparently.

You step out of the house and nearly run into Arthur. He doesn't seem concerned in the least about how your meeting with Dutch went, brows raised as he looks at you.

"So. How'd it go?"

"About as well as it could. I'm about to head out hunting."

"Sure."

"Would you like to come with me?"

"I can't. Dutch has somethin' planned tonight," he says, stepping past you. "A job. Maybe next time."

"Maybe," you say, stepping past him. "Good luck tonight, Arthur."

"Same to you, Ezra."

Now, you have someone to see about an eye.

\---

As you suspected, the eye is unsalvageable, at least to the negligible medical experience in this camp. Ms. Grimshaw and the women work an eyepatch together for you, though, and you're out hunting soon enough, shooting rabbits and turkeys as you come across them. Game is plentiful here, like the forests your father took you to when you were a boy, when you'd still done things together. Even though the loss of an eye has your aim a little less sure than before, you're still sharp.

You could run, you realize. But they won't give you a horse, and you're not going to get too far on foot without risking getting robbed and killed on the road, or eaten by the wildlife. As much as you hate to admit it, it's safer here.

You head back into camp after dark, with two fat turkeys slung over your shoulders, a rabbit hanging from your belt. Pearson accepts them gratefully, turns them into a stew that could use seasoning, maybe, but is otherwise wonderful. You haven't eaten something like this since your mother was alive.

Dutch and the rest of the men ride in late, stinking like swamp. But Dutch is in high enough spirits, even if the rest of the men seem… uneasy, somehow, like something happened while they were out.

You're curious, despite yourself. You wait until Arthur is in his room to seek him out, a bowl of food in hand. You find him sitting on his bed, rubbing his eyes.

"Dutch is in high spirits," you say lightly, and he drops his hand, looks up at you. "I assume someone died."

It was a joke, but from the way he looks at you, grim--

"'S nothin'," he says, tips his head down to hide his eyes under the brim of his hat. "Long day. That for me?"

"Sure," you say, mimicking his accent, and he scoffs, but says nothing. It must really _have_ been a long day if he won't even rise to your barbs. You pass the bowl to him wordlessly, and he digs in like he's starving, three heaping spoonfuls in before he even bothers speaking.

"What is this?"

"Rabbit, turkey, some vegetables," you say, leaning in his doorway, arms crossed loosely.

"You shoot 'em?"

"Not the vegetables," you drawl, and he just stares at you for a second, like he doesn't get the joke. You have to laugh, a low huff that makes him furrow his brow. "Yes, I shot them. Hunting is good out here."

"Ain't it?" He's finally slowing down enough on his food to get more than a few words out at a time, sighing low and satisfied. It feels good in a way you don't think about. Probably just your pathological need for praise acting up again. "You did good. Meet anybody yet?"

"Miss Grimshaw, Mr. Pearson, and miss Tilly have all been exceedingly helpful, if not friendly." You're not sure you could call Grimshaw _friendly,_ but she's a good woman, if rough. You thumb your eyepatch. "The girls helped me get this to wearable state."

"That's good. They're good people, all of 'em." He tips the bowl and drinks the rest of his stew, setting the spoon and empty bowl at his bedside. "Now, I can't rightly say that for the rest of us, but--"

"What happened out there?" you say, interrupting him. He just stares at you for a moment, like he's trying to figure out what he's going to tell you, and what he isn't. "You all looked spooked. Except for Dutch."

"We, uh - paid Angelo Bronte a visit," he says, and you stop studying your nails, looking back up. He seems… not sheepish, exactly. Worn, maybe, or like he's not even sure of the words he's saying anymore, like they don't make sense. "Dutch fed him to a gator."

"Christ," you breathe.

"I know, I know. He's just - it feels like things have changed lately. Feels like _Dutch_ is changing." He scrubs his hand over his face, half muffling himself. Like he's afraid of being too loud, but not willing to admit it. "We didn't used to be like this."

"You used to be _upstanding_ criminals?"

"No, but--"

He stops himself, huffing. "I'm goin' to sleep. You oughta do the same before you get into trouble."

You roll your eyes as he stretches out, starts to work his boots open, but you get it. You slip out of his room, shutting the door quietly. Should probably listen to him. They've set you up a tent outside on the front lawn, and you have to admit, you don't entirely mind sleeping outside. It's different than home, silent as a tomb; this place is constantly alive with chatter, or music, or the sounds of crickets and frogs.

It's peaceful. Would stay that way too, probably, but you turn and run smack into Dutch, brows shooting up at the familiar smell of whiskey. He's had a few drinks, apparently - not enough to make him unsteady, but just enough to make him touch-y, setting his hands on your shoulders to steady you.

"Easy, boy."

"It's _Ezra,_ " you snap, and he huffs a laugh, stepping back.

"Oh, _do_ pardon me for the insult, monsieur Fairchild."

Arthur tells you to go to bed before you get into trouble, and here you are, getting into trouble.

"Where's Arthur?"

"Asleep," you lie, edging around the man. "Exhausted, from the looks of it."

"I see."

You think you're free, for a moment. Even make your way around him, heading for the door. Then you hear him.

"And where are _you_ getting off to?"

"To bed, probably."

"Come on, now," he drawls, walks to you. You do your best not to shrink when he gets close, the memory of a lit cigar in your eye still vivid. "We had a good night tonight. Let's celebrate."

"Celebrate Bronte getting eaten by alligators?" you ask, lightly.

"Why the hell not?" Dutch replies, easy as anything, and wow, you're in the company of lunatics. Wonderful. He sweeps an arm around your shoulders before you can protest, dragging you back upstairs with him. "Haven't had a drink in days, have you? You could use one."

You could. You're getting the shakes, craving the liquid burn in your chest. And it's not like you're about to tell Dutch _no_ for anything - it seems like that's the greatest sin in this camp, not giving the man exactly what he wants.

So you follow. Upstairs, back to his room. When he opens the door and ushers you through, you come eye to eye with the beautiful redheaded woman you've seen around camp.

"Dutch?" She's got an accent, thick Irish. "What's this?"

"Ezra here and I need to talk," Dutch says, leading you right past her. Like she's not even there.

"But - I thought _we_ were going to talk--"

" _Now,_ please," he says, testily, and she looks between the two of you for a moment, then gets up. All but storms off. You jump at the slammed door; Dutch doesn't seem to notice, already heading off towards a small table.

"Is she alright?"

"Oh, she'll be fine," Dutch says, pouring a drink, something brown. A tall one, from the looks of it, it's not like he has shot glasses laying around. "You know how women are. If it's not one damn thing with her, it's another."

"It can't be easy for her, living out here." You accept your drink, tip your head in thanks. "Like this."

"Like _this?_ " Dutch asks around the lip of his own glass, testily. "And what in particular do you mean by _this?_ "

"Living rough."

"Contrary to your beliefs, not everyone alive needs four walls and _creature comforts_ to survive." You walk to the window overlooking the camp, looking at all the wayward souls following Dutch's lead. They seem like happy people, if not good people. "You see those folks out there? They are living something you and your family could only hope for."

"Really, now?" you drawl, looking at him. "What do you people have that I don't?"

"A _dream,_ " Dutch says, walking up beside you. "You can't see it? These people are living for something. An ideal."

"Do you really think this world is any place for _dreams,_ Mr. van der Linde?" You swallow half your drink in one go, sighing pleasantly at the burn in your chest. "America is changing. The world is changing."

"Sounds like Pinkerton talk to me," Dutch says, lightly, but you can feel him eye you closely.

"That's - not what I meant." It's weak damage control, but you have to try, looking at him. "But you have to admit, things are _different._ The West is being tamed."

"It ain't tame yet." Dutch finishes his drink, pointedly. "There are still places where people like us can live our lives in peace. That's why we're doing all of this. Those people out there, they just want to be left alone. _I_ just want to be left alone."

"Then why am I here?" you ask, tersely, and Dutch look at you. Just looks, for a moment, long and hard. "Not _here,_ alive, I know that's because of Arthur, but why get involved with my family at all if you wanted to be _left alone?_ "

"Money," Dutch replies, terse. "It's always money."

"That much we can agree on."

That's always the issue for almost everyone, isn't it? Money. Having it or not having it, it's a problem.

"What did you need to talk to me about, Dutch?" you ask.

"How familiar are you with the Saint Denis bank?" The question catches you off-guard. He plucks your glass out of your hand, pours you another. "Go on, tell me a story."

"I've been there," you say, uneasy. "A few times."

"And?"

"And what? It's a bank."

"You know your way around it?"

"Why the line of questioning?" You take a drink, clutching your glass like a shield.

"Because," Dutch starts, drawling, "tomorrow, we are going to rob it. And you are coming along with us."

Oh, god.

"I can't," you say, sharply. "I - you've done enough to me already, I can forgive that, but robbing a _bank?_ I can't."

Oh, god. Dutch's eyes never leave you as he swallows the rest of his drink, sets the glass down. You flinch as he steps closer, but he does nothing right away. Just watches. And the way he stares you down makes you feel so small.

"Can't? Or _won't?_ " His hands fall to your shoulders, keeping you from pulling away. "Which is it, son?"

You already know you've lost. There's no broaching argument with the look Dutch gives you, sharp and careful, like he's trying to judge whether or not you're worth keeping around. You don't want him to wonder.

"I don't want anyone to recognize me," you say, defeated.

"You'll have a mask on. Take off that patch and nobody'll be the wiser," he says, his hand dragging up from your shoulder to drag his thumb along your jaw. "You want to get back home, don't you?"

"Well, yes--"

"Then you'll do this with us, and be home by supper tomorrow." His voice is low now, urgent and warm. "Isn't that right?"

"Dutch--"

He knows your answer. You know your answer. You hardly even have to give it anymore, shoulders drooping with a sigh.

"Alright," you say, and he flashes a smile, the sort of warm, affectionate approval in his face that makes your chest ache. You don't want to, but if it'll get you home, and - well, if it'll make him happy for the short time you're stuck with him--

"That's my boy," Dutch says, and you flush, still not used to the praise. "You'll make a fine hand."

"Just this once," you remind him.

"Of course. Just the once." A pause, as Dutch's eyes trail down your neck. "I'm sure Arthur will be more than happy to hear you're coming with us."

"I don't - know what you mean."

Dutch doesn't have to call you a liar. Just tugs the collar of your shirt down until he can see the bruises, pressing his thumb into one until you tense.

"Alright," you say, too quickly, "I do know, I just--"

"Hm?"

"I'm just trying to survive," you say, curtly, and turn towards the door. "If that's all--"

"I don't think it is."

Of course it isn't. Your back is to him, which gives him plenty of opportunity to wrap his arms around your midsection and pull you back against him, your heart thudding hard in your chest. Arthur is one thing, he's never _mutilated_ you. But Dutch--

"Relax, son," he purrs in your ear, and you hadn't realized how tense you'd gone under his touch. You breathe out the tension, force yourself to relax. "That whole affair with your eye, that was just bad business. You wouldn't give me any reason to do it again, now would you?"

"No, sir," you say, measured, and choke on a sharp noise when he mouths at your neck, over Arthur's bruises. "Dutch--"

He bites harder than Arthur does. Hard enough, in fact, that you're sure he draws blood, and you force your yelp to come through your teeth, muffling it in this cavernous, moldering house. Everything is too loud here.

 _You're_ too loud here, making a throaty noise when his lips drift higher up, when he bites down again.

It hurts. Goes straight to your dick, too, and that's really unfortunate.

"What about your woman?" you ask, thinly, and Dutch huffs against your skin.

"What about her?"

Okay, that's… how it is, apparently. You feel bad for the woman in the moments before Dutch reaches around and paws you through your pants, making a noise in his throat when he realizes you aren't entirely soft.

"Speaking of _women,_ though, I got an idea." He turns, shoving you face-first into his dusty bed before reaching under the mattress, pulling something out. A cloth bag, a fancy one. "Got this for Molly, but if she doesn't want it, it still needs to see some use. You'll indulge me, won't you, boy?"

"That depends entirely on the indulgence," you say, already trying to excuse yourself from his bed. "I should really--"

He opens the bag, pulls out… white lace? It takes you a moment to recognize the lingerie for what it is, beautiful and expensive looking white lace underwear, a sheer babydoll top with beading meant to tease.

He wants - wants you to put that on for him.

" _Oh._ "

Dutch raises a brow at you, like he's wondering if that's all you have to say, gawping at the underwear the way you are.

"That all you have to say? _Oh?_ "

"I really - really can't, it's not--" You're scrambling for excuses, because there's a whole mess of difference between getting fucked like a woman and _dressing_ like one. Even if no one alive ever knows, even if Dutch never breathes a word, there's no coming back from something like this. "Dutch, I--"

"Go on," he says, pushing the bundle of silky fabric into your hands. "Don't act _shy._ "

"I don't--"

" _Go on,_ " he says, again, and you glance down at the handful of lingerie again, like if you stare hard enough it'll just go away.

"Will it even fit?"

"Only one way to find out."

Defeated, you start to unbutton your shirt. As soon as he knows you're cooperating, Dutch crosses the room and locks the door, fussing with something while you slip out of your shirt and work your pants down your hips. You catch a whiff of cigar smoke as he makes his way back over, stands close enough to watch intently.

"Got a nice pair of legs on you," he comments, reaching back into the bag, and tosses another handful of silky material at your face. "Don't forget these."

Stockings. Cute. You go to put one on, but he interrupts you with a clearing of his throat.

"The _putting on_ is supposed to be part of the appeal," he tells you, pushing you off the bed and sitting, taking your place. "Do it slow."

You give him a pinched look, but try to go slower, kicking off your underwear and grabbing for the lacy, barely-there pair. You stare at them for a moment, long and hard, before slipping one foot into them, then the other.

"I look ridiculous," you say, under your breath, slipping your toes into the first stocking. You tug it up, and it's… silky, a fascinating new sensation rubbing against your skin. You pull on the other one, and then really look at yourself, scoffing. "I look absolutely--"

You turn to Dutch, then, and notice how dark his eyes are, how steadily he's puffing on his cigar. You may not be particularly into these clothes, but he is, and you eye him the whole time you pull on the sheer top, watching it flutter uselessly over nonexistent breasts.

He gestures for you to come closer. You pad over, feeling more than exposed, hands dropping to cross in front of your groin to try to cover yourself - he immediately pushes them out of the way when you're close enough, rubs his thumb over your stocking-clad thigh, a noise rumbling in his throat.

"Not half bad."

"You really know how to make someone feel special," you drawl, dropping your hands in front of you again. These underwear are practically nonexistent compared to what you're used to, shivering every time the breeze hits your bare thighs, how do women even--

"You want me to tell you how pretty you are instead?" He laughs at the way your expression twists. "Didn't think so. Quiet down and let me see you."

He pulls you down to sit next to him, idly drags both your legs up unto his lap. You shiver at the feeling of his palm dragging up along the curve of your ankle, skimming over your thigh, his nails catching lightly at the sheer fabric.

"Should we really be doing this?" you say, uneasy, throwing a glance towards the door. You doubt miss O'Shea is coming back, but literally anything could happen, anyone could demand Dutch's attention, and then where are you? Stuck in women's underwear during a shootout. "What if--"

" _What if_ is the anthem of cowards," Dutch rumbles, pressing his lips to your ankle. You tremble at the sight, aren't entirely sure why. "Your lack of nerve is as off-putting as it is sad, Ezra, it really is."

You're sufficiently cowed to let him trail kisses from your ankle to your knee, staring hard at every press of his lips. You're not sure why your face is so hot by the time he moves to the other leg, but the way he looks at you is sly, like he _knows_ you like how he looks like that.

Because he looks good like that, hair out of place from the events of the day, whiskey on his breath. Nevermind that he only started showing you this much interest when you put on women's undergarments - you find yourself liking the attention more than anything, the way he's looking at you, like you're wonderful. Precious.

It's a lie, you know that. But it feels so good in the moment.

You're not sure why you try to kiss him. It's a stupid idea from the get-go. As soon as he's done fluttering your legs with kisses, sitting up, you lean in and press your lips to his, expecting fireworks.

Dutch makes a noise against your mouth, pulls back with a look on his face like you've grown a second head.

"The hell do you think you're doing, son?"

He says it half-laughing, genuinely bewildered that you'd think you were allowed to do that. You shrink, the embarrassment gripping something in your chest and twisting hard, because - sure, he kisses Arthur, but who the hell said he wanted a kiss from _you?_

"Nothing," you say, small, and he presses a hand to your chest, flattening you against the mattress.

"Alright."

An unspoken _don't do that again,_ and you're not stupid, you understand. He seems all the more pleased by how cooperative you're being, rough hands dragging up your thighs, over your stomach, back down to slide his thumbs in the waistband of your frilly underwear and rub the soft skin there. You shiver at the feeling, and he makes a pleased noise, palming you through your underwear. You gasp, press your hips up into his hand.

"That's right," he purrs, groping you through the sheer fabric, a rough and demanding touch that nonetheless seems to get your cock hard. You watch in mild, embarrassed distress as you tent the panties, and it just looks--

"Goddamn beautiful."

You or the underwear, you can't tell what he's referring to here, but - _beautiful._ You can't say you've ever wanted to be called that before, but it's sweet in your ears now, as Dutch works to discard his vest and shirt. He's a broad man, dusted with dark hair over his chest and arms, his body shaped by decades of hard life, and, and--

Oh no, he's hot.

"See something you like?"

You were staring. You're still staring, because you've never gotten to see a man in any real state of undress, not like this. But he _notices_ you noticing his physique, and you stare at the ceiling instead, trying to will yourself out of existence from sheer embarrassment.

If you were a more scientific man, you'd be interested in how you can feel so comfortable with Arthur and so keenly out of place around Dutch. It's sort of fascinating, really.

"Aw, you don't have to act _shy_ for me, Ezra," Dutch drawls, leaning down. "We both know well enough you're not wearing white on your wedding day, boy."

Lord. You're almost glad when Dutch pulls you off the bed, taking a seat at the edge. You stand there stupidly until he takes you by the arm and drags you down onto your knees in front of him, and _now_ you understand. You're not thrilled, but you get it.

"Let's see how sweet that mouth really is," he says, low and warm, and you watch his hands fall to his pants, working them open. He's half-hard when he pulls himself out, and you lick your lips expectantly, earning a warm laugh. "Good to know you're as eager as I am. Open up."

You can do better this time. You're sure of it. You open your mouth and try to remember what the last girl who did this for you did, drunk, behind a bar. You remember very little because, again, drunk, but you remember she pillowed the bottom of your cock on her tongue, so you do the same, closing your lips around Dutch.

He says nothing. Just puffs his cigar and threads his fingers through your hair, gripping there, urging you forward.

Sucking a criminal mastermind's cock in women's underwear. You're really going places, aren't you.

You hum around Dutch, low and throaty, and feel him breathe in, fingers tightening in your scalp. "That's right, just like that. Use your tongue."

You know, the first time you did this, you were too busy being traumatized to really think about what you were doing. Now, though, you close your eyes and really focus on working his cock, dragging your tongue from tip to base, tongue rasping over his balls.

He makes a _sound_ at that, low in his throat. And from the looks of it, it's a sound he didn't intend to make. You plant hot, open-mouthed kisses along the length on your way back to the top, and his fingers tighten in your hair, neither pulling nor pushing, just holding on.

"You get some practice in last night, or are you just a quick learner?"

It's not a question that he's expecting an answer to, so you don't bother, focusing instead on wrapping your mouth around him and sinking as far as you dare. You taste something saltier than his skin on your next drag up, and pull off, breath coming in steady pants.

There's heat in Dutch's face when he pulls on a handful of your hair, tipping your head up, your mouth slick and used.

"Want more?" he asks. You already know what you're supposed to say.

"Yes, sir," you say, and Dutch flutters a groan, pulling you back down onto his cock.

" _Perfect,_ " he hisses as his cock bumps the back of your throat. Your gag reflex works, but doesn't quite trigger, and you've managed to find that sweet spot between disappointing Dutch and gagging yourself to sickness on him. "Look at you. Like you were made for it."

You go to pull off, to argue, but he shoves you back down - then up, then down, until he's fucking your throat, and the wet, throaty noises you make around him are _obscene,_ nails digging half-moons into his thighs where you're clutching him. He swats your hands away the moment you start to leave marks, and you knot them in the sheets on either side of him instead, willing yourself to relax while he uses your throat.

It isn't easy, but you manage. Dutch comes with a curse, shoving you down until your lips are flush with the dusting of coarse hair at the base of his cock, the coarse taste on the back of your tongue before he decides to do away with the rest of the mess right down your throat. He fills your throat, actually, and when you go to pull off, he won't let you, his grip like iron on the back of your head.

You can't breathe, but you don't dare bite him. You're keenly aware of the knife and the gun still strapped to his hip, inches from your face.

He does let you go, eventually. You fall back with a choke, coughing wetly around the bitter salt taste of his spend. Dutch only leans back, the tension in his body going slack, even exhausted. Like wanting to fuck was the only thing keeping him alert and awake, and now that he's done--

"You can go," Dutch says, looking down on you. Not at you, but _on_ you, like you're an embarrassing boy in frilly underwear who desperately needs someone to like him, and he's done pretending to make you feel good about yourself.

"I--"

What are you going to say, here? _No,_ as he's already standing, walking across the room to stub out what's left of his cigar and get ready for bed? Are you going to beg him to touch you, just to make this feel less like being used?

No. You're not.

"Where do I put these?" you ask, weakly, your erection already flagging as you thumb the lingerie. Dutch looks at you from across the room. Laughs, low.

"Why don't you keep it. Take it back home with you after the bank tomorrow, call it a _keepsake._ "

Your face is burning with humiliation as you dress, dragging your clothes on over the lacy underwear, resolving to take it off when you're back in the privacy of your tent. You say nothing to Dutch as you leave, and Molly stares at you from just outside the room, arms folded, her expression dark.

"The hell are you looking at?" she snaps, already on her way back into the room. "Dutch!"

You say nothing to her. Just duck your head, avoiding everyone else on your way to your tent, and thank god that Arthur is already asleep. It's not like you're beholden to him, but he's got enough worries about Dutch these days, and you won't even be here after tomorrow.

It's fine.

It's going to be fine.

Back in the safety of your tent, you take off the lingerie and shove it underneath your cot, between the base and the mattress. Maybe you'll burn it later.

You only go out for fresh air. Maybe a drink. You nearly miss the figure sitting off to the side until he waves you over.

It's the older man, the other one in charge besides Dutch. You glance around, sure he's gesturing for someone else, but - no, it's just you here, and he raises his brows at you after a moment, expectant. You hurry over and try not to look like you just had Dutch's dick down your throat.

"Yes, sir?"

"It's Hosea, not sir," he says, and you relax, if only by degrees. "Sit down."

You do, across from him, and eye the drink he passes you.

"I'm not trying to get you drunk, if that's what you're worried about."

"You'd be the only one," you say, and polish off the drink. He studies you for a few moments before speaking up, quiet enough that it stays between the two of you.

"Tomorrow, after this bank job, you should leave. Got nothin' good coming to you here."

You look at him, not quite grasping this hidden meaning he's trying to pass off to you. He finishes his drink.

"Dutch."

"Ah." You panic inwardly, hands clenching into fists down at your sides. "Dutch."

"He has his appetites," Hosea says, and you palm the bite mark Dutch left high on your neck, only just remembering it. Hell, everyone in camp must know. "but lately, things are out of control. If you stay here, there's no guarantee you'll get out alive."

"I know he's dangerous."

"I don't really think you know just how much," he replies, eying you, and you see absolutely no trace of hesitation in his look. "Get out while you can, Mr. Fairchild, before you ain't got the choice."

"I'm leaving after the bank job. A week on, in Tahiti, you won't even remember I existed. And I'll try my hardest not to remember a single one of you, either."

Hosea smiles, a little.

"Good man." He pushes something towards you. A deck of cards. "You play?"

You smile despite yourself, small. He must know, on some level. He doesn't have to, but he's trying to help you, and the least you can do is spare some time to play.

You reach out, palm the deck.

"Texas Hold 'Em?"


	5. Chapter 5

You're not sure how the bank robbery goes so wrong. It seemed good enough in theory.

But now you're bathed in bullets and panicked shouts from the men as the Pinkertons and the gang wage war over Hosea's cooling body. Didn't know him, not really, but what little time you spent together had been some of your most pleasant since the moment you laid eyes on _Archibald Smith._ You mourn the man, however briefly.

"How the hell are we getting out of this, Dutch?" you shout over the gunfire, balancing your rifle on an overturned desk. You don't consider yourself a part of this, really, so you aim for legs and arms, not heads; Dutch doesn't seem to notice amid the chaos.

"I'm working on it!" He unloads another shot square into an officer's face, glancing around. "Arthur, get over here!"

If you survive any of this, you're never setting foot out of your house again, you've decided. You'll live your whole life from the safety of four walls, far away from this kind of shithouse crazy nonsense, and lunatics with _dreams_ will never find you again.

Christ, you hope you survive this.

An explosion from somewhere on your left rocks you, and you look over in time to see Arthur slipping out a fresh hole in the wall.

"Ezra, up to the roof! Draw their attention!" Dutch calls out, and he doesn't have to tell you twice.

You follow Arthur to the rooftops, and up here, you don't have the option to aim for arms and legs. You shoot for stomachs and shoulders instead, hardly able to believe what you're doing, gunning down the police. Like a criminal. Like you're one of these people, and you're _not._ You would never do this on your own.

But you're not on your own, are you?

Things move fast. Once the rest of the gang is on the rooftops, you head off with Arthur and Lenny to scout ahead. You turn back to Dutch just long enough to miss what happens - there's a gunshot, and then Arthur is shouting at your back, gun already going off when you turn back.

You didn't know Lenny, really. Didn't want to know any of them. But you stop short at the sight of his corpse, because god, he's young, isn't he? Younger than you. And he's _dead._

You could die today. You feel like you're constantly on the razor's edge of a wave of overwhelming panic, like one wrong train of thought could send you either into apopleptics or into the arms of the law, begging for forgiveness they won't give you.

"Come on, we gotta move."

Arthur's voice is there, urging you on, and you break away from the sight. Forge on after them, ducking over rooftops, until you're all safe ("safe") in an abandoned building, the whole lot of you practically collapsing once you're there.

You stay quiet while they argue. You don't know them, really, or their business, there's no reason for you to get involved. You wait until attention turns to you, which it does. Of course.

"And you," Dutch says, pointing at you, "Time to make a decision now that you're among the ranks of the outlaws."

"I'm not--"

"The hell you ain't," Arthur spits, glancing out the window. "You just robbed a damn bank."

"Cowpoke's got a point," Micah adds, leaning forward on his knees. "Doesn't matter where you come from, rich boy. It's all the same to the Pinkertons."

"We cannot afford to let anyone who knows anything about us get captured, and that includes you." Dutch stands from his chair, walks across the room to face you properly. "Now, time to choose: are you with us, or against us?"

You're in a room full of outlaws and killers armed to the teeth. It should be obvious what your answer is, in case you don't want to die today.

"I'm with you," you say, sighing, and Dutch gives you a tired clap on the shoulder, hand dropping from his knife. "Just a few weeks?"

"Long enough to get the law off our tail. Then you can come right back and pick up where you left off." Dutch retakes his seat, now that you're no longer a potential threat. "I'm sure there's been plenty of fancy parties in Saint Denis, with a distinct lack of rich, drunken fools."

"That's not fair," you say, hoping you don't sound half as whiny as you do to your own ears. "Don't talk to me like that. I've done everything you've ever asked of me. I _robbed a bank_ for you! You goddamn ungrateful--"

"Easy," Arthur says, looking at you.

"That's right, Ezra." Dutch is smiling now, a nasty, spiteful little look in your direction. "Easy."

You fall silent, finding a spot against the wall to sit and shut your good eye. Now that everyone's had their word, apparently, Dutch glances over you all.

"Now everybody, calm down." He breathes out, heavy. "I mean… look at us."

Yes. Just look at you now.

\---

Of course, that _boat escape to Cuba_ goes horribly wrong too. Why the fuck is everything going so wrong for you lately?

Your clothes are still wet as you huddle around the campfire on the Guarma beach, wringing out your socks into the sand. The lot of you look like absolute shit - Micah always looks kind of dingy, sure, but Javier and Dutch sure as hell don't, and now they're stringy-haired, soaked messes. Like you.

Arthur is gone. Went down with the ship, Dutch says. You're not sure how you feel about it, but it isn't good.

You're pointedly not talking to Dutch, warming your hands over the fire. Arthur is dead and you're stuck on some tropical island with a bunch of thieves and murderers, hundreds of miles from home, with a bounty on your head, and your underwear are still soggy. Life is not good.

"We need food, Dutch."

"I know," Dutch says.

"Water, shelter--"

"I _know,_ Dutch tells Javier again, sharply, and scrubs his hand over his face, pacing around the fire. "God dammit, I know."

"What's the plan?" you ask, lightly.

"I am _working_ on the plan." Dutch looks at you pointedly. "Why don't you go scare us up some supper, you're supposed to be the master hunter here."

You take one of the rifles, pushing yourself up. Any excuse to get away from them is a good enough one for you, and you wander into the nearby jungle, looking for anything edible. Birds, deer, oversized lizards, whatever they have on this poor man's Tahiti.

You're lining up a shot on an unsuspecting bird when you hear voices. Not the men's voices, either, new ones. You come back to the camp, peek through the trees, and watch the men - watch _Arthur,_ who is miraculously resurrected - be strapped into a chain gang, hobbling their way down the beach. Too many men with too many guns to try to save them.

You realize something: why would you want to save them?

Sure, you're alone here, on a strange island. But you speak conversational Spanish, so you don't need Javier, and you've got a gun, so you don't need Dutch.

You could be free. Gone, in a whisper.

But you'll follow them, see who's got them. You do, wading through the jungle brush with some difficulty, watching them and their entourage pick up a new string of captives.

You're so focused on following them, in fact, that you don't realize there's someone else here until there's a gun pressed to your temple.

"I'm not from here," you say, sharply. Then, in Spanish: " _Don't shoot, friend._ "

"I can see that," the man says, his French accent noticeable, and you turn to look at him. He looks like a native, or at least someone far more used to island living than you. "What are you doing here?"

"Following them," you say, glancing towards the chain gang. "Is that a problem, sir?"

"Why are you following them?"

"I'm not sure yet." And you're not, as ridiculous as it sounds. The man gives you a confused look, glancing back at the group. "They have something of mine."

Gold. You'll need Dutch's gold to charter a boat, probably.

"Can you shoot?" the man asks.

"Watch me."

"Good. You might start now," he says, and takes aim, blowing the top of a guard's head off. You join him, raining bullets down on the group, trying ("trying") not to hit any of your companions in the process. Then they're loose, and the man at your side is urging them on.

You've only aimed for legs, arms, guts before. But there's no option for non-lethal methods here, and so you kill your first man, plugging him through the chest twice before moving on.

It's not good business. You don't feel great about it. But it's clearly you or them, and you're choosing _you._

You lose Javier, but it's better than a total loss - the rest of them make it to the treeline, where Dutch seems genuinely surprised to see you. You say nothing, just stick to his side, waging on towards the next gunfight. Which comes minutes later, of course, defending an old fort tooth and nail as you push the enemy forces back.

Finally, they retreat, and you get a breather. You follow Hercule (as he says his name is), listening to him rattle off the history of the island and this Colonel Fussar. You don't say much, just follow along, doing what you're told. It's what you're best at, apparently.

It isn't until Hercule leaves the lot of you that you finally take a break from them, tucking behind a shadowed building to close your eyes and breathe.

You're still not sure whether saving them was a good idea. You're even less sure when you see Dutch's familiar silhouette come around the corner.

"You did good today, son," he says, tired.

"I did what I had to." You lean back against the building, shut your good eye. "You're the man with the plan, Dutch."

"I didn't know you had such faith in me," he says, coming over. You tense, instinctively, and he stops. "What's the matter?"

You say nothing. What's the respectable way to say _I'm afraid of you?_

"You act like you're scared," he says, huffing a laugh like he doesn't understand _why_ you'd be scared of him. Comes close again, sitting beside you and slumping to the ground with a sigh. "I know we haven't always gotten on well, but believe me - I have nothing but your safety in mind here."

"I know that, Dutch."

"Good," he breathes, his head thudding back against the wall, his eyes closing. You've never seen him in this sort of disarray, this tired. "What the hell are you doing back here?"

"Oh, you know, rethinking my decisions in life."

"I'm rethinking a few of my own, as of late."

"Giving the criminal lifestyle a second thought?" Your voice is light, if tired. "You could always be a singer."

"You practicin' your comedy routine for after we get the hell out of this mess?"

"Might be."

You look at him, now. He almost seems human like this, worn down from the godlike figure he is in camp, his hair stringy and out of place, clothes hanging off him in awkward, dirty angles. And he looks at you too, studying your face intently, like he's looking for something.

You go to say something else, but just like that, he leans down, presses his lips to yours. And it's not demanding, not greedy like the very first time, not _rough._ It's warm, and gentle, and--

It's what you want. Maybe not from him, exactly, but this tenderness, it's what you've wanted the entire time, and you flutter a sigh into it, parting your lips for him.

He knows it's what you want. He's giving it to you because you've been good and loyal. It's not something he wants, it's a _reward._ You're smart enough to know what he's doing, but not smart enough to stop yourself from feeding into it, making a soft noise into his mouth as he deepens the kiss, your hand coming up to catch in his vest.

You shouldn't make any sounds. But you do, low in your throat, and he makes a sound like laughter against your mouth, breaking off.

He presses his lips high on your neck again, over a healing bite.

"You've been so good for me, Ezra," he purrs, hand flattening open and warm on your belly. "So loyal, all this time."

"Dutch--"

He shushes you, palming you through your pants, and you jolt up into his touch.

"This is just for you," he says, sliding his hand down the front of your trousers, pulling your cock out. You're not hard, but you're not exactly _idle_ now that he's got his hand around you either, and on the first stroke, your hand flies to grip Dutch's shoulder like iron. "That's it."

So easy to just listen to directions, do what you're told. To let him pull close, pressed up against your side, murmuring sweet things in your ear. Not sweetness directed at _you,_ really, or anything about you, but sweetness all the same, warm praise that you didn't realize you'd needed so keenly. So good. So loyal. So _good._

"Relax," he breathes, and worries your neck with his teeth, light enough not to leave marks for once. Must not be so brave outside his camp. "There you go."

Relax. You haven't relaxed in weeks, it feels like.

So you do, leaning into Dutch, his chin on your shoulder as he strokes you off. You're hard in his hand now, free hand clenching and unclenching rhythmically while he works you slow and firm. God, his hands.

"Why are you - doing this?" you whisper, too afraid to raise your voice, to make a single sound as he works your cock. He presses his thumb over the head, rolls tight little circles there that get you whining as quietly as possible, head thrown back.

"Do I need a reason?"

No, you suppose he doesn't. But he's always got one. Dutch never does anything just for the hell of it, he's always got some kind of angle, and you know more than anything that he's got an angle on you too.

But it's so good.

"You're a good man, Ezra," Dutch purrs in your ear, probably relishing the way you twitch back against him, your grip on his wrist white-knuckled. "And a damn fine shot. Not hard on the eyes, either."

His grip tightens. You hiss at the squeeze, hips twitching abortively.

"Dutch?"

"You _are_ loyal, aren't you?" He's eying you now, and fuck, you're stupid, now he's interrogating you with your dick in his hand. He strokes again, tighter, firmer, and this time, you feel the white-hot drag of his rings. "Ezra?"

"Ye--" A choke. What are you supposed to say besides what he wants to hear? " _Yes,_ Dutch."

"I wonder, sometimes."

"But I just--"

"Saved us, I know. And you did good." His stroking is slow, lazy, like he's working you for everything you've got. It's a struggle not to lift your hips into it. "But I wonder about when this is all done."

"I won't - won't tell anyone," you gasp, head dragging along the wall. "I won't tell them anything."

"I know you won't. Not with what you've done." He huffs a laugh, lips pressed to the spot under your ear. "You really think you can just go back to your old life after all this?"

Well. That was the plan, but as the days and unfortunate events wear on, you're starting to wonder if it will ever happen. Some quiet part of you wonders if it's even a good idea.

"Yes," you say through gritted teeth. "I do."

Dutch makes a noncommittal noise in his throat, says nothing as he speeds up his strokes. You're pressed up against him now, piled up against his side and under his arm as he works you, and it's - it's just so--

It's good. It's good for you because he wants it to be good for you, and that isn't a given. You have to earn it.

You come with a sharp noise muffled into your palm, choking on your breaths as he pushes you straight through your orgasm, until the blinding pleasure turns to overstimulation. You try to extricate yourself from his grip, from his hand, but he won't budge, not just yet.

"Dutch--"

"Easy," he breathes, and lets your cock go. You're still trying to catch your breath, boneless and shuddering in his grip. "You done?"

You nod, shortly, and just like that, he's gone. Dutch pulls away, straightens his clothes (it's pointless) and makes sure you didn't manage to get anything on him.

"Tomorrow, you and I are heading out to scout the cave," he says, standing. Isn't even hard, you notice. "Get some rest. We're up at dawn."

"Yes, Dutch," you say, reaching down to put your cock away, straighten your clothes.

"Yes _sir,_ " he corrects, low and urgent, and you could sigh. He really likes that authority, doesn't he?

"Yes sir."

"Good man." He gives your shoulder a squeeze, already passing you by. "Now, we should get back out there before anyone starts asking questions."

"Of course," you say, and you follow him. It seems to be a theme lately.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tripleposting evil cowboy pornfic for all my excellent readers, thank u all
> 
> ( seriously look at the tags again )

The next day, you watch Dutch strangle an old woman and rob her corpse. Fantastic, the things you're doing lately.

"She was going to betray us, Arthur. Couldn't you tell?"

You stare at the dead woman, something sinking in your gut. In the beginning, you'd sort of fancied your involvement in the group like a morally questionable, modern day Robin Hood. Robbing banks, killing crooks like Bronte. Fighting the good fight, as pointless as it is.

But this. This is different.

"You keep killin' folk, Dutch," Arthur says, and you glance over at the two of them, watching the way they quietly square off.

"I am just trying to make sure that some of us survive, Arthur." Dutch looks to you now. "You understand, don't you, Ezra?"

"Yes, sir," you say, glancing away from him. He looks too intense, ragged and at his limit, like he's liable to explode.

"Do you? I have my doubts, sometimes."

"You gonna kill him next, Dutch?" Arthur says, and Dutch just _looks_ at him, like Arthur's lack of cooperation with cold blooded murder is irritating him. "Already put out his eye."

"And I'm sure Ezra remembers _why,_ " Dutch says, climbing the ladder. You go last, following them up. "And he's doing perfectly well now, isn't he?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why you callin' him _sir_ all of a sudden?" Arthur looks at Dutch. "Didn't think we was like that."

"Oh Arthur, it's just a title. Don't be so focused on the details."

Arthur looks at you for a long moment, but you stay quiet. It's the safer choice here, usually.

"You gonna strangle me next?"

"I am doing the best I can," Dutch says, and you really wonder.

It's not an easy rescue. After, when Dutch is dragging Javier's unconscious body to safety while you and Arthur lay down suppressive fire on your pursuers, you hope he appreciates the fact that you got shot in your shoulder to save him.

You lose your pursuers, after a while. Barely. You're out of breath and Arthur is coughing again by the time you stop running, finding shelter in a thick grove of trees, out of the sight of the main road.

"Come on, let's look at that shoulder," Arthur says, and you sit down gratefully. He has to help you out of your shirt, already soaked in blood down the arm. You can't bear to look at it, already staring up at the sky. Arthur laughs. "What, you scared of a little blood?"

"Do you want me to vomit on you, Arthur?"

"Well - no--"

"Then I need to do this," you say, queasy. Arthur huffs another noise, tearing a strip off your vest. "How bad is it?"

"Not bad. Clean shot." He wraps the fabric around your shoulder, ties it tight. "Keep it clean and you should be fine."

"Hurts like hell," you say, and Arthur just stares at you for a second.

"It's a gunshot. It's s'posed to hurt."

You flush, feeling stupid. It's a familiar feeling lately, spending so much time with Dutch, but Arthur - he's different. He seems to notice, shaking his head.

"Sorry. It's just--"

"It's Dutch, isn't it?" you say, unbidden.

You both seem surprised at your courage, even if you say it on an exhale, looking up at Arthur like you're afraid he's going to lash out at you for breathing dissent against the almighty Dutch van der Linde.

He doesn't. Just glances away.

"You… speak some Spanish, don't you?" he says. "Heard you talkin' with someone back in Saint Denis."

"Yes."

"That old woman..." Arthur glances at you from where he's sitting, his expression unreadable. "What was she sayin'?"

You should tell him. Should confirm those suspicions of his, and set him against Dutch. That's what someone _smart_ would do. Someone clever, with a drive to succeed.

But you think of Dutch. _You've been so good for me, Ezra._

"Something about Fussar," you say, the words wrong in your mouth. Feels so wrong to cover for _Dutch_ of all people, but you can't afford to break up the gang while you're still stranded out here, on this hellish island. Can't afford for them to fall to infighting and kill each other.

That's what you tell yourself. The dead woman's gold is still in Dutch's pocket, as far as you know, so if this whole _saving the island_ affair doesn't work out, you could always still take it off his body.

"I don't remember her saying anythin' about Fussar," Arthur says, but he isn't sure. Doubts himself, when someone like Dutch isn't there to stand him up.

"She didn't, exactly. But she said something about how we'd make her more money than just the gold, and I assume that's what she meant."

Arthur just looks at you for a moment. Uncertain. Dutch has been feeding him a steady stream of lies for as long as you've known them; you can't blame him for the mistrust, really.

"Okay," Arthur says, and looks away. Looks up at the failing light, peeking out between the trees at the purplish orange sky. "Suppose we should wait here tonight, get back to the fort tomorrow mornin'."

"I can live with that," you say, and glance over when he starts coughing again. "You alright?"

"Just a cough," Arthur says, leaning back against the tree. "Probably caught somethin' from this damn place."

"Probably caught it running one of Dutch's errands," you drawl, eye shutting.

"Yeah, probably."

You hate the resignation in his voice. He's… not a good man, but he's the best Dutch's troupe seems to have to offer, and he's been a good enough man to you since you've known each other. Treats you well. Hasn't ever put a cigar out in your eye. He's doing better than _certain people._

"Arthur," you say, glancing at him, and he cracks an eye. "I have a question. About you and Dutch."

"Alright," he says, clearly uncertain.

"You two, are you--"

"I ain't talking about that," he says.

"Okay." You can't really push something he doesn't want to share. You change tactics. "Does he treat you well?"

"Dutch? He treats me just fine," Arthur says, noncommittal. Not looking at you. "Things have been… all over the place lately, but..."

You both fall into silence. Neither of you need it spelled out - Dutch is apparently going off a deeper end than ever before these days, and Arthur, loyal as a dog, is losing faith. And here you are, covering for the devil in what feels like every last detail of both your lives.

"What about you? He still givin' you a hard time?"

"You could say that," you reply, and start when you feel the faintest brush of fingers over the healing bite high on your neck.

Arthur pulls back immediately. "Sorry, I just--"

Was just curious, you're sure. Wondering whether or not Dutch treats you the way he treats him.

You catch his wrist before he can pull away entirely, guiding his hand back. He works a thumb over the very edge of the scarring, faint but noticeable for someone who knows where to look.

"It's not like it is with you," you say, suddenly, unable to stop yourself. You're not sure why you want to reassure him, but the drive is there. "We don't even - not like you and I did. Not that far. He just--"

You breathe in. Breathe out, at a lack of a good answer.

"Seems like he's just killin' time?" Arthur says, hardly above a murmur. "I know the feeling."

He's got marks of his own, you realize, now that you've finally had a chance to sit down with him. Dutch is more discreet when it comes to his _best man,_ but the nicks in Arthur's lips are evidence enough.

His lips.

"Can I--" You stop, losing your nerve. "Nevermind."

"Already got my attention. Might as well spit it out."

"Can I kiss you?"

Arthur seems taken aback, and it's Dutch at Shady Belle all over again, your voice spilling out of you before you can stop it. "Or not, it's fine if you don't want to, I just - we've been so busy lately--"

"You _want_ to touch me?" Arthur says, finally. "Thought you knew better."

"I do, I'm sorry--"

But it's not like with Dutch, who sneered at you for even thinking you could have some intimacy with him. You're already spilling apologies when Arthur wraps a sure hand around your nape and brings you in, and his lips are--

They're softer than you thought they would be. Warm against yours, too, a chaste press that he seems content to keep up as long as you like. You don't like, in fact, running your tongue along his bottom lip, feeling him open up for you.

Feels different, to have control, even if just the littlest bit imaginable. Feels _good,_ being the one to slip your tongue against Arthur's, hearing and feeling the soft noise he makes. He can't control himself by then, groaning, pressing you back against the base of a tree and he pushes into your mouth, and it's _different,_ it's so much different than Dutch, even if roughly the same things are happening.

It's just… less stressful. Less of a life or death scenario, every time. Arthur is just Arthur.

You make some nice noises for him, cupping his face. He responds by biting your lip as he pulls back, just once, hard enough that it'll be puffy later. You're almost wondering if this isn't building up into some demented turf war between Dutch and Arthur, where they compete to leave as much evidence of themselves as possible on you, like staking a claim.

But it's a nice kiss. You even kiss him again, brief and soft, before pulling back.

"That was better than Dutch," you say, and Arthur doesn't seem to know what to do with the information, sitting back.

"It was?"

"Not a hard task, really."

You're lying, Dutch is great at what he does. At seemingly everything he does, besides maintaining a moral core and keeping people alive. Arthur seems damn near pleased as he sits across from you again, the slightest touches of heat in his face.

He coughs. Wouldn't it just be your luck if you caught whatever cold he's got?

"We should get some sleep," you say, pulling your rifle across your lap. "We'll have to leave at first light to make it back without being seen, I'd wager. I'll take the first guard."

"Thanks," he says, shutting his eyes as he leans back against the tree. You think that's everything you'll get out of him tonight, but a few minutes of silence later, he speaks up.

"You're not half bad either. Just, uh. For the record."

He's so awkward it's kind of endearing. Not that you're letting yourself get endeared to any of these people, but Arthur is easily one of the most likeable of the bunch. Maybe you'll be a good influence on him, assuming Dutch doesn't turn him into a mass-murdering monster in the end.

You flush at that, though. You don't say anything in response beyond a hum of acknowledgment, letting him sleep, but. Well.

That's nice to hear.

\---

It's still dark when you make it back to the fort, in surprisingly good time. Bill is up playing guard; you nod to him as you pass, and he nods back, cordial as ever. You like Bill. He's a simple, straightforward type of man. Micah, who is dozing just inside the building they've lent Dutch's gang (plus you) to sleep in, is absolutely not simple or straightforward, and you don't like him.

"Howdy," he drawls at you and Arthur when you come in. "Where the hell have you been all night?"

"Got caught out after dark. Couldn't risk moving around." Arthur passes Micah without a second look. "Don't you have something better to do around here?"

"Nothin' but waiting up for your ugly mug, cowpoke."

"Good. You can get your fill." Arthur pulls off his holster, sets his guns down. "Where's Dutch?"

"Asleep. Like I _should_ be right now."

"Guard duty never killed nobody."

They're busy trading barbs. Bill is outside. Javier is in the corner, recovering. And when Arthur strolls into the next room, Micah at his heels, still talking, you swallow your trepidation and put _the plan_ into action.

See, _the plan_ is a bad plan, and a simple one. You're no Dutch. But you're silent as you edge into Dutch's room, seeing him asleep on a rough bed in the corner. He keeps the gold in his pocket, you know that. You just have to find out which one. And not carrying out _the plan_ isn't an option either, because Dutch is going deeper and deeper off the edge and Arthur doesn't seem to know how to bring him back. You have to get out before it's your neck in his hands.

A bar of gold could get you anywhere. Hopefully, it'll get you back home _without_ the van der Linde gang breathing down your neck. They'll find some way home, probably, or end up caught, or killed, but that's - that's just what happens to people like them. They're meant to go down in blazes of glory. And anyway, you can't risk your entire life, your _future_ on the feelings of some criminals.

You feel the gold bar through the fabric of Dutch's pocket, palming the body warm weight of it. You even manage to open his pocket and get your hand around the bar before there's a hunting knife jammed against your jugular, Dutch's grip like iron on your wrist.

"What do you think you're doing, son?" he says, carefully.

"I--"

You have no answer. Just stare at him, terrified, as he sits up, and then stands, waiting for you to slip your hand out of his pocket.

"Because if I had to guess," he says, too light, too easy, "I'd say you were trying to steal from me."

The knife presses harder, blood prickling from a superficial cut thanks to the way your pulse is pounding against the edge.

"Do you know what they did to thieves in Biblical times?" He's got you by the wrist now, dragging your right hand up. "Do you?"

"Dutch--"

"They would cut off a man's hands." He grips you tighter, your fingers tingling from lack of circulation. "Right at the wrist. And if we were not currently at war, God help me, I would do it."

You're not sure how accurate that is, but it doesn't matter, because _Dutch wants to cut off your hands._ Oh god.

"Fortunately for you, we are _otherwise occupied,_ and I can't afford, presently, to lose a man to his own stupidity."

"I just want to go home," you say. "I want to leave and you - I don't think you'll let me, after this. I don't."

"And what exactly _do_ you think, son?"

"I think you're about to hurt me," you say, and Dutch smiles, unkind.

"You think right."

He drags you over to the end table, presses your hand flat to it. He's got the knife in the other hand, _oh god,_ and you're already trying to pull away, babbling excuses, apologies.

"I'm sorry, I didn't think. I wasn't - I'm just, oh _god,_ don't do this." His grip is viciously tight, and you curl your hand up into a fist the moment the knife drifts close. " _No,_ don't--"

"Either I take the finger," he says, slow and even, "or I take the whole goddamn hand. Pick one."

"I'm _sorry._ "

"Oh no, you're not sorry. Not yet." You unfold your hand, reluctantly, and watch the knife's edge drift over each finger, like he's trying to decide which one is going to leave you the least crippled. Wouldn't want you to be useless after he's done, would he? "But you will be."

The knife is sharp, but it still gets stuck on bone. Dutch has to put his whole weight into it to cut clean through.

You thought the eye was bad. That getting shot was bad. But this?

It's a whole new level of pain you that didn't even know existed. It's _awful,_ and there's so much blood right away, pumping out of your hand and all over yourself. You'd scream, too, but Dutch wraps his hand around your windpipe and squeezes the air out of you, until your screaming is reduced to soft, agonized whimpers.

"Wouldn't want to wake everyone up early, now would we?" he says, and you nod, gritting your teeth. You get the idea, _don't wake anybody up with this,_ he doesn't want anyone helping you right now. Dutch lets go of you, and you try to keep your sound down to gasps and wet whimpering, dropping to your knees. Try to stay quiet, or as quiet as you can.

It's not like any of them would sympathize anyway. Arthur, maybe, and even he can't really do anything about it, even if he wanted to.

You watch Dutch pick up your severed pinky. You watch him look at it, for a second, with something like mild interest, before tossing it out the open window.

You vomit. Dutch recoils, swearing, carefully crossing around behind you, away from the mess.

"You disappoint me, son," he says, and you're too aware that he's now behind you with a knife. "I thought we had an understanding."

"We did," you gasp. "We do."

"I think our understanding of the word _understanding_ is quite different." He hunkers down beside you, his presence like a weight. You're not expecting the bloody hand that falls on your shoulders, drags its way up to your cheek, through your hair. "Now, we are _going_ to survive this, but only if we _work together._ Are you going to work with me, Ezra?"

"Yes," you breathe.

"Are you _sure?_ " He drapes the other arm around your shoulders, wiping the blood off his knife, onto your shirt. "Because if this isn't a workable relationship, tell me now."

"No, I - this is fine." It's not fine, nothing is fine. "Whatever you say, Dutch."

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"Because I don't want to lose any more fingers," you say, and Dutch seems satsifed, sheathing his knife. He stands up, forces you to stand up on unsteady legs too. He's too close.

"You don't think I'll let you leave after all this is through?" He laughs, light and easy, like he didn't just _cut off your finger._

"No," you say, honestly.

"I have to admit, you could be a hell of a hand if you wanted to. No pun intended." He gives your shoulders a squeeze, like you're _friends._ Like this is friendly. "But if you want to leave, you're free to. I don't _force_ anyone to stay in my family if they don't want to be there."

His family. Nevermind that he's fine with fucking and mutilating his family.

"We're never getting off this island." You're already ripping a strip off your vest, tossing the tattered remains over the mess of vomit on the floor while you make yourself a tourniquet. "God, I'm going to die here."

Dutch's hands cover your own shaky pair, pull the cloth from your fingers. You watch him tie up your stump, careful. Like he doesn't want to cause you any more pain, which is hilarious considering what he's done to you.

"We are _all_ going to die someday. Better to die fighting for something than cowering in the dirt." He ties the bandage off, hands coming to cup your jaw and turn you to look at him. " _You_ are one of the finest shots I've ever seen. I have absolutely no doubts that you can kill someone before they get the chance to kill you."

"Why are you doing this?" It's not the question he expected. Not the one you expected to ask, either, but you can't help it, voice still uneven from the rolling waves of pain, trembling all over. " _Nice_ doesn't suit you, Dutch."

"So I've heard."

He lets go of you, blood still sticky on your cheek and his palm.

"I am trying my _best,_ " he says, slow and firm. "Trying to keep you boys alive, and all I get is complaints, and questions, and _thieves._ Do you have the slightest idea the pressure I'm under?"

"So you're killing old women and cutting off fingers," you sneer, because no, _fuck_ him. He doesn't get to play martyr after what he just did to you. "Oh, you're doing _fantastic,_ Dutch, really raising the bar."

"Careful," he says, lightly. Dangerously. "You be careful, boy."

You don't have the nerve to say more. He's simmering on the edge of cutting your throat and bathing in your blood, probably, so you stand, meaning to leave. He stands too, grabs you by your injured hand and drags you back. You yelp at the pressure, looking at him again.

"Until we are all back on American soil, you belong to me," Dutch says, evenly. "And you'll do what you're told. Nothing else. Understand?"

"Yes, Dutch."

"Yes _sir,_ " he corrects, squeezing your stump, and you nearly black out.

"Yes _sir,_ " you grit, and he lets you go.

"Good. Now clean yourself up and get out here," he says, passing you by. "We've got a boat to catch."


	7. Chapter 7

It feels like a lifetime until you're on that boat.

Your ears are still ringing from cannon fire as you sit, eying the waves. Your hand hurts, a deep throb that never quite leaves you, and you can't help but think about Dutch. Feels less and less like you're running with Robin Hood and more like you're tailing a remorseless killer with a fan club.

_We just need some money,_ Dutch keeps saying. You don't say anything. Haven't said anything to him since he took off your finger.

When he starts talking about _family,_ what he'll do for his _family,_ you get up, crossing past him on your way to the other end of the boat. Dutch doesn't stop his tirade, even if he eyes you as you go.

Everyone knows what you tried to do, what Dutch did in turn. No one's said anything about it, although they seemed uneasy at the news.

_Dutch, he's like that,_ Javier had told you later on, when the two of you had been outside, off by yourselves while everyone readied themselves for the raid. _The hell did you try to rob him for? What did you think would happen?_

You don't know what you thought would happen. It was a stupid plan.

You're leaning over the railing when you hear footsteps behind you. You're starting to recognize certain people by the way they walk, too. Arthur's trod is heavy, quick. Micah sneaks. And Dutch?

He has an easy, deliberate stroll. Like the one coming up behind you now.

"Ezra."

"Sir."

He sighs, comes to stand beside you at the railing.

"If you had taken that gold, we would've had nothing to pay the captain with," he says, slow and measured. "We would've died on that island, or died after the U.S. government turned up and shot us like dogs. It was a matter of life or death, Ezra."

You say nothing. It's not like you need to, he can do enough talking for both of you.

"You understand my… reaction."

"You cut off my finger and threw it out of the window, piss off," you drawl, and honestly, if he threw you over the edge right now, you're not entirely certain you wouldn't appreciate the rest after all that nasty drowning business.

You're just so tired, anymore. Tired of the schemes that never seem to go anywhere, tired of the stress. You're starting to sound like Arthur.

"Do you know what I do to traitors in my camp? I _kill_ them, Ezra, so you should count yourself lucky. Now, that whole issue is over and done with," he says, setting a hand on your shoulder. "We can move on. All of us."

"What makes you think I'm staying anywhere near you when we make land?"

"Until people forget about the Saint Denis bank?" He huffs a mild laugh. "You're as good as dead anywhere else. You think people can't recognize a one-eyed bank robber who decided to wear a woman's handkerchief as a mask?"

Maybe not your best decision in robbery wear, but hell, Tilly's the only one who had anything you could use - or the only one who was willing to give it to you, anyway.

You flush, slightly, and set your jaw. It isn't much of a reaction, but it's more than Dutch has had out of you in a solid day. He seems to pounce on it, his arm a steady weight on your shoulders.

"And let's be honest, son - you can shoot, but you ain't the sharpest knife in the drawer," he says, voice light, like he's sharing a joke. You shrink in his grip. "Out there, alone? You'd be dead in a week."

Maybe he's right. He's probably - no, he's almost certainly right. You can't go back home until things blow over in Saint Denis. You getting caught and recognized aside, you can't risk drawing your father into this. If the government decides he's your conspirator, your family will lose everything.

Maybe you're not smart enough to do this on your own. Certainly seems like everything you do goes to shit lately.

"You're right," you say, low.

"I knew you'd see reason." He gives your shoulder another squeeze. "Just a few more weeks. Once we get some money, we'll drag the Pinkertons off to some _exotic locale,_ and they'll forget you ever existed."

"Doesn't that sound nice."

Dutch is quiet for a moment. Sighs.

"I wish there were some way to make you see things the way I do, son," he says, his arm dropping from your shoulders. "Some way to help you understand."

"What am I supposed to understand, exactly?"

"That in dire situations, dire measures must be taken," he says, and sees that you don't understand. It takes him a second to break down the words for you, and that doesn't exactly make you feel great, either. "We were in bad straits. I was under… a lot of pressure. And then one of my own trying to rob me--"

"I'm not _one of your own,_ " you snap, finally looking at him. "There is no _us._ Just you, and I, and your men."

He scoffs, stepping back out of your peripheral.

"I'm sorry you see it that way."

"I don't think you've ever been sorry in your life."

Dutch says nothing for a few moments, somewhere behind you. Finally, you feel a hand on your back, a warm weight that, no matter who it's attached to, is comforting. Your shoulders slump, the tension bleeding out of them.

It's surrender enough for Dutch.

"When we go ashore, you're coming with me."

"I thought we were splitting up," you say, turning to face him. Maybe there's an edge in your voice. You thought you'd be alone.

" _They_ are. Now, you--" He pushes past you, to the railing, leaning over it the same way you were earlier. "--I don't _trust_ you. So you're coming with me."

"I don't want to come with you," you say, plainly, and he offers you another unkind smile.

"I didn't ask what you _wanted._ "

Okay. You start off across the deck, to the opposite side, wanting to get some distance between the two of you. He only trails after, circling like some sort of predatory animal, the sound of his footsteps too loud on the wooden deck.

"This is what's going to work for us, Ezra," he says, circling around into your field of vision again. Like you can't escape him. "This is what's going to keep us all alive. Tell me you understand."

"I do, but--"

"That's all I needed to hear." He grasps you by the arms, earnest, half-wild. "All I need from you is loyalty, son. That's all I'm asking for. Just a little _goddamn_ loyalty."

You know a losing battle when you see one. You swallow thickly, your voice unsteady when you do speak.

"Alright, Dutch." It's quiet. "Whatever you say."

"Whatever I say," he repeats, almost like he's not even talking to you. "That's right. All you have to do is listen to whatever I say."

"Sure," you say, mimicking Arthur's drawl.

"Oh, that is cute," he says, flashing a brief smile. "Is that new?"

"What's it matter?" you reply, testily. Maybe you like saying _shore_ more often. Maybe it makes you feel rough, outlaw-y. "I said I'm with you, Dutch."

"Right," he says, already drifting off. "Remember that, Ezra, it'll take you far."

He gives you a pat on the back in passing, heading back to the other end of the ship. You head back to the railing, and as you're staring down into the blue, blue water, you consider leaning forward just a little bit further. Until you go over. Death itself seems preferable to another week with Dutch.

"Hey," someone says behind you, and you jump. You turn sharply, pressing back against the railing, and nearly lose your balance. Arthur grabs you, hauls you back before you can manage to kill yourself. "Woah, easy--"

You exhale on seeing him, the tension leaving you. He seems to notice, too, his eyes crinkling with concern.

"You alright?"

"I'm fine," you lie, and listen to him cough for a few moments. "Are _you?_ "

"M'fine," he says, possibly also lying, and waves his hand. "That's not what I came over here for. I'm askin' if _you're_ alright, 'cos you sure as hell don't seem like it lately."

"I'm just tired." Not the whole truth, but definitely not a lie, either. You're so tired anymore. "I just need rest."

"Pretty sure rest won't fix that," he says, gesturing towards your hand with a tilt of his head. When you look away sharply, obviously sore, he changes topics. "Sure takes some balls to try and rob Dutch. I'm almost impressed."

"Don't be. It was an awful idea."

"Well, yeah." That much is obvious to him, at least, and you stare down into the waves again. Seems like everybody knew it was a stupid plan except for you. "Still pretty impressive."

That's… better. Makes you feel a little better. When he speaks again, his voice is low. You're not sure whether it's conversational or comes from concerns about Dutch listening in.

"You alright?" he asks, again. "I mean it."

"I stopped being _alright_ when Dutch dragged me out of my house that night. Christ, _look_ at me." You laugh, mildly hysterical, and turn your attention to the water again. "I'm a fucking mess."

"Not the messiest I've seen by far." It's his way of trying to comfort, you think. He doesn't touch like Dutch does - doesn't reach out, squeeze your shoulder, nothing like that. He just _looks_ at you. "Look - feelin' sorry for yourself ain't gonna fix anything, Ezra. Best you can do is try to move on."

"He won't _let me,_ " you snap, turning back to him. Just like Arthur, you keep your voice low, like Dutch is going to appear out of thin air any second now if you get too loud. "As soon as we get off this boat, I'll be stuck with him for god knows how long. And you--"

_You're not coming. You won't be there._

"You've got your own business," you say instead, careful. "But you understand where I'm coming from, here."

"Dutch ain't hard to get along with, it's just lately--"

Lately he's been unhinged, is what Arthur is probably thinking, but won't say.

"Things've been hard lately," he finishes instead, lamely. "I know you two have your issues, but now ain't the time to try to work them out. It's just a couple of days, week at the most."

There's a lull in conversation. You let a few moments pass before you look to him again.

"How do you live like this?" Arthur gives you a look of confusion. "On the run, all this hiding, this killing - how do you do it?"

"It's all I've ever done. Don't rightly have that many other employment options." He's dodging the question, glancing away.

"That's not what I asked."

He sighs, after a moment, and scrubs his face.

"Look, it ain't easy. It's a hard life. But sooner or later, you're gonna have to decide whether or not you can go back to bein' one of the regular folks out there."

Can you, really? With the things you've seen, done, felt?

"You know," you start, laughing faintly, "before the bank robbery, I spoke to Hosea."

"Oh?"

"He told me to get the hell out as soon as I could." You look at Arthur, your smile brittle. "I don't even know if I can anymore."

Arthur says nothing. Just stands next to you, providing his company, and you'd never realized how nice company could be until it was him.

"Hosea was right," he says, finally, walking back towards the front of the ship. Back to the men, back to Dutch. "You shouldn't even be here. Wouldn't be, if it weren't for--"

Dutch.

"That night," Arthur says instead, glancing back. "If you ask me, he was right. You need to get the hell out of here and never look back."

You watch his back until he disappears around the corner. He's right, but you're not sure how you're supposed to get to that point. It seems impossible, tied up in yards of Pinkerton yellow tape and Dutch's eminent bullshit.

But it's fine. It's going to be fine.

\---

And for the first time in fucking _weeks,_ something doesn't immediately go to shit as soon as you show up.

Most of you split up as soon as the boat touches shore. You say your goodbyes to the ones you like (everyone but Micah) and go. You swear Arthur whistles and his horse comes out of absolutely nowhere. It's incredible.

You and Dutch, on the other hand, have to do things the hard way.

"Come on," he says, leading you down the center of the road, once you've all gone your separate ways. "This way."

"Down the middle of the road? Shouldn't we stay off in the brush?"

"We need horses, Ezra."

"So how are we going to get them like this?"

Dutch glances back at the sound of hoofbeats. Two men on horseback, heading straight for you.

"You let me handle that. Gentlemen!" Dutch flags them both down. "A moment of your time?"

"The hell do you want?" the first man asks, and before he can say anything else, Dutch pulls his pistol out and shoots the man in the face. The other fumbles for his gun, but you're quicker - after Guarma, it's like muscle memory, drawing your pistol and plugging the man twice in the chest.

"Ha!" Dutch claps you on the back. "Fine shooting as always, Mr. Fairchild. Come on."

You just murdered a man. Not for survival, not to stay alive, but for a goddamn horse. You glance back at the bodies, unsure. Unable to properly process all of this, with Dutch breathing down your neck.

"We can't just leave them like this--"

"Come _on,_ " he says again, lower, and you pass the bodies by fretfully, mounting a chocolate brown horse that has absolutely nowhere near the personality your horse does. "We have places to be. Someone'll find them, I'm sure."

But that's beside the point. You glance back at the bodies one last time.

"You just keep killing people," you say, quiet, and Dutch huffs.

"God, not you too."

"We didn't have to kill them. We could've walked."

"We are doing what we have to, Ezra," he says, terse. "My god, Arthur has poisoned your mind with his doubts."

"Arthur didn't do anything." You spin off into some light coughs. Huh. "And I'm not doubting, I just - don't know that we should be killing everyone we see."

"All this _doubt_ is starting to make me wonder why I even brought you back."

He says it like there was an option to _not_ bring you back, like you should be grateful he didn't kill you or leave you to rot in Guarma.

"I'm not doubting you, Dutch," you say, lying through your teeth. "You're the one with the plan, aren't you? You've kept me alive this long, haven't you?"

"You're right." He pinches the corners of his eyes, sighing. "I'm sorry, son. It's just - all this _doubting_ lately--"

"I know, Dutch."

"It just wears on me," he says, and you can see plainly that it's true. "What I need from you right now is some _faith._ I know you don't know me like the others do, but believe me - I will get us through this."

You're not so sure, but then again, you probably won't be here by the time Dutch comes up with a really, really shitty plan and gets everyone killed. A couple weeks, that's all, you can do that. Have done it already, in Guarma.

You choose not to answer him, only following his lead. By nightfall, you hear wolves in the distance.

"We need to stop for the night."

"That we do." You both see a farmhouse up ahead, empty, the lights all out. "We'll stop there."

You both hitch the horses - when you try the door, it's locked, and Dutch has to shoulder it open. The lock gives after two shoves, and the two of you stumble into a fully furnished house.

Something doesn't feel right.

"We should go," you say, abruptly, looking at a house that someone's lived in recently. And if they come back while Dutch is here--

"Go? This place is perfect." Dutch heads to the cabinets, pulls out a half-full bottle of whiskey. "Why the hell would we leave?"

"What if someone comes back?"

"No one's gonna come back this late," he drawls, tipping the bottle back. You swear he swallows at least a quarter of it before he's pushing it into your hands. "Go on, settle those nerves."

"I really shouldn't--"

"You really should," Dutch says, and you get the message, tipping the bottle back yourself. It's stout stuff. You plan on one mouthful and end up stopping after four, passing the bottle back. The hot liquid burn in your chest is a familiar, welcome feeling. "See?"

"Let's just check the house."

Dutch makes a noise of agreement, hand on his gun as he glances around. "I'll take downstairs. You take upstairs. Take anything that looks valuable and ain't nailed down."

"So thieving only matters when it happens to you?"

The look he gives you is downright venomous. You duck off for the stairs before he can answer, plodding up a rickety staircase. The first few rooms have various small items in them - you even pull out a platinum band from a drawer, a watch, a few well-hidden money clips.

A sound from the one room you haven't checked stops you cold. You've got your gun drawn when you inch into the bedroom, and see--

"Ezra," Dutch shouts from downstairs. "Anything up there? Ezra?"

You're staring at a dying woman in a bed, a death rattle on the tail of every last breath. She's awake, she's staring at you. Doesn't seem to be able to talk, but she's clearly terrified.

"Ezra, what's the--"

Dutch is in the doorway now, and stops short when he sees her.

"Ah."

"What do we do?" you hiss at him, glancing between the two of them. She's clearly not going anywhere, but you still feel like you need to watch her. "I told you we should've left."

"Of course not. This ain't a problem."

He walks over to her bedside, looks at her.

"Ma'am, this is nothing personal."

He pulls the pillow out from under her head, crushes it over her face. You rush to their side, pulling at his arm, _Dutch, wait, no_ on your breath as he smothers the woman, stronger than you by far. By the time you pull him off, tossing the pillow aside, it's too late. She's already glassy-eyed, her rattling gone quiet.

You look at Dutch, distraught.

"Why did you _do that?_ "

"She would've told someone about us."

"She couldn't _talk._ "

"Had hands, didn't she? All she'd need is pen and paper and we're sunk. Ezra, you're missing the forest for the trees here."

This is wrong. All of this is so wrong. You turn, pacing, a sick feeling twisting in your gut. Three murders in a day, all random innocents who happened to be in Dutch's - in _your_ way.

"Son--"

Dutch has his hands on you now, wheeling you around to face him.

"Calm down. We are _surviving._ "

"I don't want to do this," you tell him, glancing at the dead woman. "I don't want to just _kill._ "

"We are not _just killing._ We do what we need to." He turns you away from the corpse, deliberately leading you out the door, back downstairs. You're trembling. "She was dying anyway, wasn't she? All I really did was speed things up a bit."

He takes you back downstairs, pours you a drink. You're getting drunk now, you realize, and absolutely shouldn't be, but there's a gnawing guilt that you need to drown right now, and Dutch is happy to keep pouring.

"Better?"

"Better," you slur, but it's not, not really. Nothing is better, you're starting to doubt things will _ever_ get better. It seems like the van der Linde gang is on a sharp tilt straight down to hell, and you're coming with them.

"Good. We can finally relax."

There's another bed down here, off to the side of the living room, and it's calling your name. You stand, walk towards it.

Dutch catches your wrist and tugs you back. He's standing now, turning you around, making you look at him. Takes your face in his hands.

"Ezra, all of this--" Dutch says, low and soft. "It's all just another temporary setback. I don't do this for _fun,_ I do it because someone has to. Because I know you won't."

You're starting to doubt that he doesn't enjoy the killing, on some level, but you can't argue the rest. He's doing all this horrible shit to keep you and him and everybody else alive and free, and you suppose that you can comprehend it, on some level.

"I understand, Dutch."

"Do you, son? I have my doubts."

"Don't you always?"

You stare at each other for a long moment. Dutch's eyes trace down to your throat, like he's thinking how easy, how much more efficient it would be to kill you and go back on his own.

"Are you with me, Ezra?"

It's low, dangerous. You nod, your pulse picking up.

"Of course, Dutch."

" _Are_ you?" He huffs a laugh. "Because I'm starting to think you're not cut out for this life, boy."

And if you're not, you're sure he's going to cut you out. And he's certainly capable of it.

"Dutch," you start, low, reassuring, "I've done everything you've told me. Made some mistakes, but everyone does. I'm still here, aren't I?""

"You are," he says. "I know you are."

He's looking at you, now. Closely, like he's studying you. Steps forward, edges you backwards until your back hits the table. You barely have the time to _think_ to ask him what he's doing before he sets a hand on your hip, leaning down.

He doesn't kiss you. But he does put his lips at your ear, voice low and warm.

"Always here for me, whenever I need you." His other hand on your other hip, now. "Whenever I want you."

"Whatever you need, Dutch," you say, tired and drunk. It's what he wants you to say, so you say it, nervous knots twisting in your chest. "I'm here."

"I know."

He presses a kiss just under your ear, and you tremble at the intimacy of it. In fact, it's effective enough to make you easy for Dutch to turn around, until your belly hits the table's edge, his hand on your back. He pushes you down until you're bent over it, and then his hands are scraping up under your shirt, palming over your back.

"Just like that," he says, and you let out a shuddery breath, gripping the table's edge. "Such a good boy."

_Good boy_ shouldn't have the effect on you that it does. You feel a spike of heat down in your gut at the words, a sharp breath rushing out of you when he sets his hips against your ass, lets you feel the weight and heat of him.

"You want this?"

"Yes, sir," you say, and you don't even know if you're lying anymore. "Please."

It'll keep you alive. Keep him from thinking too much about your loyalties. And maybe the feeling of him rucking your shirt up around your shoulders and skimming his rough fingertips down your back isn't that bad. Maybe when he leans down and presses a kiss to your nape, it isn't bad. And when he bites--

You're glad no one is around. The noise you make is ungainly, shoulders tensing, your grip on the table white-knuckled. He laps at the wound when he's done (he bites too hard), nosing into the collar of your shirt, lips dragging over your skin like he's trying to think of where to bite next.

"Dutch--" He grabs a handful of your hair, gives it a sharp, corrective tug. " _Sir._ "

"That's right."

It feels good. Maybe it's because you're drunk, but Dutch's hands dragging over your skin feel good, firm and warm as he hooks his thumbs in the waistband of your pants, tugging them down on your thighs. You press your bare ass back against him, your face hot against the wood, and he huffs a warm laugh.

"Eager?"

"Hurry up," you tell him, and he laughs again, reaching around to get his hand on your dick. You exhale, shuddery, through his strokes, arching back into his mouth when he presses it to your neck, open and hot. "Please--"

"I got you, son," he says, low and husky, and you're trying hard not to think about how the hand on your cock just smothered the life out of a woman less than an hour ago. The reminder has you hesitating, because--

Well, it's fucked up. But if you don't, Dutch is going to fuck _you_ up. You're sure the dead woman understands, wherever she is.

"Stay," he tells you, firm, and pulls back. You listen to him walk around the house while you're bent over the table _presenting,_ and it's embarrassing, just sitting here, waiting for him to decide to come back. What the hell is he doing, anyway?

He comes back, and you're confused, at first, when he loops a thin leather cord around your neck, ties it.

Then he tugs on it, and you realize he's found an old dog leash.

"Wait," you start, but choke off the rest when he tugs you up off the table, pulls the leash until your back is flush against his chest. "Wait--"

"I am well past the point of waiting," he drawls, husky in your ear. "Take it off. All of it."

All of it. Your fingers are numb, clumsy when you start to work the buttons of your shirt open, and he drags it off of you as soon as it's open, tossing it aside. The pants are already down low, so it's easy to let them pool in the floor, stepping out of them along with your shoes. Did away with underwear back in sweaty Guarma.

You're bare except for the leash, and Dutch seems more than happy to stay clothed, dragging his free hand down the length of your side. If you didn't know better, you'd almost say it was appreciative.

"You look damn good like this," he says, pushing you back over the table. It's cool, and you tremble, skin too hot against the wood. His shoe taps at the inside of your bare ankle. "Spread 'em."

You do, exhaling sharply when he hooks his foot between yours and forces you to spread even wider than you'd intended. He's got the leash wound around his wrist now, so that every time he touches you, it pulls slightly at your neck, a constant reminder of who's in control.

He's a selfish lover. You don't know how you're surprised.

"Better," he says as he spreads you, grabbing your ass with both hands, squeezing. The touch is new, almost violatingly so, and you tense under it, nails pressing into the table. "And damn beautiful."

There's that word again. You're only _beautiful_ when you're doing what he wants, you've noticed, but now isn't the time, and your head is swimming enough from the drink to leave your thoughts muzzy and thick.

Something slick dribbles down the crack of your ass, cool enough to make you jump. He runs a finger through it before pressing it into you, apparently done with the foreplay, pressing in a second finger when the first one goes in easy. It's a stretch, but not a painful one.

Last time you were like this, it was back at your home, when you had two eyes and ten fingers. You'd been naive, but eager. Now you're tired, worn down, and the idea of Dutch fucking you the way he's fucked your life up is too good to resist.

He scissors his fingers in you, and you wince at the stretch.

"Not as loose as I'd thought."

"Pardon?"

"You've been running all over God's green earth with Arthur. I thought the two of you might've stayed intimate."

"No," you tell him, uneasy. You don't want to talk about Arthur right now. "We were - too busy--"

"At least you've got _some_ sense." He starts to pump his fingers into you, and you sigh, because it feels - you're not fully hard, not really there yet, but it feels pleasant enough. Then he curls his fingers, and you yelp, nails leaving faint lines in the table. "There?"

"Right there."

"Good to know," he says, and starts pumping his fingers again, rough, loosening you up. You whine in drunken displeasure, and he pushes your face down to the table again, firm. "Down. You'll take what I give you."

You'll take it, alright. His hands are gone for a moment, and then you feel the warm weight of his cock against your ass, hands spreading you so he can fit his cock between your cheeks, grinding his hips against you.

It's a new sensation. A dirty feeling, honestly, as he ruts against you, gets himself fully hard, pulling at the leash whenever he fancies. After a bit, he pulls hard, keeps pulling, backing up until he's dragging you by your neck towards the bed. You're surprised to see him slip on first, sitting on the edge.

He pats his thigh, and you come over of your own volition, a hand on his thigh as you move to get to your knees. He drags you back up instead, and further, until you're forced to crawl into his lap, following him as he sprawls back on the bed. Of course he wants to be comfortable.

"Up," he says, hands on your hips, and you set your hands on either side of his head, lifting up on your knees, and--

Back down, now that he's got his cock lined up right, and when you take too long sinking down onto him, he pulls you down flush. You make a sharp noise in your throat at the sudden push, but you're slick enough with whatever the hell he found that it isn't painful, just uncomfortable.

But Dutch rumbles in his chest as soon as he's seated in you, low and pleased, his fingers denting the skin on your hips.

"Good," is all he says, his smile low, his eyes heated. "Now _ride,_ boy."

Ride him. God.

He's on the larger side, fills you nicely as you lean forward against his chest, rearranging your knees under you again. You let out the softest little _oh_ as you slide back down onto him with a roll of your hips, and both of you make soft noises. He's big enough that he can't help but hit the right spots, and you tighten down around him, your good eye half-lidded, voice hazy.

" _Oh,_ Dutch," you sigh, and he chuckles, low and warm in his throat.

"Just like that. Beautiful boy." It's the sort of praise he knows you're addicted to, and you flush down your neck and up into your cheeks from more than just the drink and the fucking. "Show me how loyal you really are."

You're not sure how this supposed to prove your loyalty beyond your willingness to lay on your back for him, but whatever makes him happy these days is good enough for you. Whatever keeps Dutch satisfied, whatever he wants. And it's so easy when he's like this, sweet and praising you, petting up and down your side as you lift up off him, slow, and come back down hard.

It's not like it is with Arthur. This feels like walking a tightrope, constantly trying to keep him happy with you, to please. It's kind of hard to mess up riding someone's cock until they're satisfied, but Dutch's words - _not the smartest knife in the drawer_ \- has you doubting yourself, your abilities. So you worry.

"You're doing just fine, son," he purrs beneath you, like he can read your mind. "Just like that."

He keeps tension in the leash, gives you the occasional tug when you're not moving fast enough, pulling on it until you nearly choke in your attempt to rise up. Then he pulls you down with it, and you choke on a moan instead, clenching down tight enough around him to bring some delicious friction into it.

You _both_ moan, this time, although his is lower, deeper in his chest. You, though? You _moan,_ a dragging, throaty sound that sounds too loud in your ears, and Dutch's grip tightens on your hips, his eyes dark.

"Don't," he says, when you cover your mouth with your hand, and pulls it away. "I wanna hear every little sound you've got in you."

"Dutch--" He pulls on the leash, tight. "Sir--"

"Move your hips, boy."

You do, enthusiastically. Now that you're in control of how fast it goes, you have the freedom to grab the headboard for support, work yourself onto him in short, hard bounces, chasing pleasure. And it works, you _like_ it this hard, your voice cracking on another sharp noise. A panted _yes._

Dutch doesn't seem to know what to do with you, at first. One hand stays on your hip, but the other finds the sheets and knots into a fist, and he _likes_ this, you're doing it right. Doing it well, even. Well enough that he groans, deep, which is easily the best sound you've ever heard out of him, sweat broken out on his brow, dirty hair stuck to his skin.

He smiles at you, low and heated, and it's easily the most arousing thing you've seen in your entire life.

" _Dutch,_ " you say, over and over again, like a mantra. He's looking at you like you're the only person in the world, both hands on your hips now, lifting you up and pulling you down harder onto his cock. "Dutch, Dutch, please--"

"I got you," he says, breathless, fingers digging hard enough into your hips to bruise. "I've always got you. I take care of you, don't I?"

"Y--"

"And I always will. As long as you'll let me." He sits up, now, and flutters kisses over your chest, up your neck. "All you have to do is have _faith._ "

Have faith. He's treating you well right now, isn't he? Maybe if you behave, it'll stay like this until you leave. Until you can get back home, back to your books, and your booze, and your drunken father.

For the first time, you're not sure if that's what you want anymore. If you could even go back that life, after everything that's happened. All you've done.

His breath is coming in a steady pant against your skin, now, and the fact that he's aroused by sex shouldn't be surprising at all, but his reactions, somehow, still are. The fact that he wraps his arms around you, brings you in against him. You wrap your arms around him and bury your face in his neck, your _ah ah ahs_ against his pulse.

"Mm. Sweet boy." His hand slinks down between you, wrapping around your cock, and you let out a sharp _ah_ at how intense it feels when he strokes you. "Half tempted to keep you all to myself."

The idea of being kept shouldn't do the things to you that it does. Should be terrifying, the fact that he's thinking like that at all. But he's being so _good_ to you right now, so sweet, tells you everything you've ever quietly wanted someone to say to you, and some of the things you never thought of. He litters your neck with bites and suck-marks, too high to hide. Like he _wants_ everyone back at camp to know he's been here.

Or maybe not everyone back at camp. Maybe just one person in particular.

"Dutch, I'm--" You gasp as he tips your combined weight, flattens you out against the bed. Like this, he can get a hand around your neck and squeeze, the other hand shoving your leg out of the way, scandalously wide. "D--"

Like this, he gets to set the pace, and it's downright brutal. Dutch fucks _hard,_ enough to rattle your teeth in your head, and it feels--

You're screaming, soon enough. It's hard, it's _good,_ so good you could cry, and the louder you get, the better he jerks you off, like he's trying to goad you into being even louder. The creaking bed and your combined sounds fill your ears, and you shut your eye, hands white-knuckled in the sheets on either side of you.

You're so close.

"You close, son?" He nearly sounds out of breath. Must be work for an old man like him. You only answer with a cracking voice, a choked _Dutch, Dutch, Dutch,_ and he laughs, dips his head. "I'll take that as a yes."

His stroking stops, abruptly. You nearly sob.

"Why did you--"

"Tell me you're loyal," he says, breathless. Like he needs this. "Just to me. Tell me."

"Just you, Dutch," you say, legs wrapped around him. You squeeze tighter, trying to urge him on. "I need you, fuck, _Dutch--_ "

It's good enough for him. He picks up again, both his fucking and his strokes, does them slightly out of time with each other so that you're awash in sensation. Your nails leave red lines along his hands, and then he lifts his own from your hips, links your fingers together and pins your hands to the mattress on either side of your head.

You can't think. Can't hardly breathe. It feels so good.

You come with a howl of Dutch's name, and from what little you can tell after you come - it's all a white, sensitive haze, easily the hardest orgasm of your life - he isn't long after, hips going erratic before stutter-stopping against you.

He moans, once. Just once, low, but it's a beautiful sound.

You lay there for a minute, after the two of you are done, just trying to put your head back into something resembling sensible thought. Dutch is a little quicker on the recovery, pulling out, wiping himself off on the sheets.

You are aware, however, of his hand when he holds it in your face, his knuckles covered in your spend.

"Clean it," he says, and you obey, dragging your tongue over his knuckles. The taste is awful, but the simmering heat in his eyes, his faint smile when you lap his fingers clean, it's all worth it.

When that's done, you sit up, and then immediately fall forward into the pillows. You're not sure your legs would work right now if you tried them, and the bed is so comfortable, first one you've seen in weeks.

Dutch stands, tucks himself away. He's still flushed, but that aside, you still wouldn't be able to tell he just got finished fucking. Incredible, how he does that.

You've got your eye shut, so you don't see him reach down, ruffling your hair.

"Good work, son." You answer with a sigh, but it's a pleased one, if tired. "Get some rest."

You're not sure where he goes. You're not really sure you care. But you do sleep, and it's dreamless.


	8. Chapter 8

"This is Agent Milton with the Pinkerton Detective Agency..."

You and Dutch are barely in the door in Lakay before the law shows. _Of course._

"...on behalf of Cornwall Kerosene and Tar, the United States government, the commonwealth of West Elizabeth… and Theodore Fairchild..."

Instantly, eyes turn to you.

"My father," you say, hoarse, and Arthur cusses somewhere to your left.

"--we are here to arrest you and reclaim your hostage. Send out Ezra Fairchild and come out with your hands up, or we will assume him dead and open fire. Eh, on second thought--"

The world explodes into gunfire. All of you hit the floor, bullets punching through the wood, and Arthur pulls at you, already belly crawling towards the back.

"Come on!"

Sadie leads you two out back, to a hatch in the other building. It's in there that Arthur turns to you again, and you watch him reach down, yanking the gun off your hip.

"What are you doing?" He tears your shirt open, sends the buttons flying. "Arthur--"

"You're gettin' the hell out of here," he tells you, making you look like a mess. It's not hard to do, you're already messy and in pieces thanks to Dutch, but Arthur finishes the image. "We just gotta make you look pitiful enough not to get shot."

Arthur studies you a moment. Rears back, socks you square in the nose, and your mostly-healed bones break all over again. You reel back, swearing, and Arthur's already gathering you up, pushing you back towards the hatch.

"Better. Now come around the side and start screamin' for an _agent Milton,_ understand?" You nod, tears prickling at your eyes as you clutch your nose. "Now go on, get!"

He shoves you out, and you come around the corner of the house with your hands up, a bloody mess. You shout Milton's name.

Someone shoots you in the shoulder for your trouble. Again. God dammit.

"Hold your fire, that's Fairchild!" Men duck in to drag you back to the treeline, and a severe man in a bowler hat looks at you, studying your wrecked self. "Ezra Fairchild?"

"More or less," you tell him, and he drags you up from the dirt by your arm, pulling you towards men on horses. "Where--"

"To a hospital in Saint Denis, and then back to your father," he tells you, clipped, already turning back to the firefight.

"What about them?"

"With any luck, they'll all be dead in ten minutes," Milton says, already turning away. "Get him out of here."

You're hauled up onto the back of a horse soon enough, turning to watch the house in Lakay disappear through the treeline. If you really focus, you think you can see a flutter of Dutch's vest through cracks in the walls.

You're free. Arthur let you go.

You start coughing on the ride to Saint Denis, and the man in front gives you a strange look before speeding the horse up to a canter.

\---

In Saint Denis, the doctor looks at your eye, your finger, your nose, and all of that turns out as expected. Your nose is broken, will probably heal crooked. Your eye is a burned-out milky color, and you'll never see in it again. Your finger might be infected, but they can treat that.

Then you cough, and he looks at you strangely, and listens to your chest. He washes his hands when he's done, and your something in your chest drops.

"Tuberculosis," the man tells you, and you nod dumbly. "I'm sorry, son."

He asks where you've been lately, and when you say Guarma, he frowns deeper. Stay away from humid climates, he says, because if you spend time there, you've got about six months to live.

"Best to stay in warm, dry climates out West," he tells you, washing his hands again. "Stay in clean air, don't smoke, get plenty of rest. Doesn't look like you've been doing much of any of that, lately."

"Not in particular," you tell him, rubbing your face. When you offer him your hand for a shake, he pretends he doesn't see it, standing and turning. "Doctor - how long do I have?"

"At best? Two years. A few more if you're stubborn."

You're pretty sure some famous gunslinger with TB lived quite a bit longer, but you're nowhere near confident that your luck will carry you that long.

"Is there any treatment for the pain?" Because the coughs are starting to hurt, turning up a thin watery fluid. You cough again, hard, and your hand comes away watery and pink. "It's - getting worse."

"Alcohol, in moderate doses," he says, and offers you… a glass? There's something ground up in it, floating over the top. "With a sprinkle of poppy seeds. Should control the pain, prevent diarrhea, treat the cough."

You swallow the whole thing in just a few gulps, then hand the glass back. The man's eyebrows raise.

"Living rough lately, son?"

"More or less," you say, standing. "I should go. Wouldn't want to scare off any of your lovely patients out there."

You head towards the door, only stopping when he grabs you by the shoulder. He pulls back immediately after, but you turn to face him, watching him drop a package of seeds in your hands.

"Ground these and add them to a pint of alcohol every morning, and every evening. Use laudanum while you're out and about."

"I understand. Thank you, doctor."

"Good luck, son."

You head out of the doctor's in a daze, walking to the man waiting for you with the horse. You can get up on the back without help, although it sets off a coughing fit you muffle behind your teeth, and the two of you make your leave from Saint Denis.

You're dying. Who did you get it from, how did you--

Arthur is coughing. You kissed him, back in Guarma, and it's the only thing that makes sense, that somehow his condition has transferred onto you through contact, either from the kissing or--

You clear your throat, and the Pinkerton taking you home shifts nervously in his seat.

"Consumption, is it?"

"Yes." You're starting to feel good. Never had opium before, but it's a struggle not to lean up against the man in front as your body relaxes, the pain in your chest starting to subside. "You're familiar with it?"

"Had an aunt that died from it a while back. Horrible way to go."

"Thank you, you're helping so much."

"I'm just telling you the truth, sir. Try to take it easy. My auntie, she was a whore. Didn't live an easy life. And she didn't die an easy death, sir."

"I see." You shift idly in your seat, flexing your toes in your shoes. This opium stuff is something else, no wonder people cause such a fuss about it. "Thank you, I suppose."

"Of course. This is your ranch, right?"

You haven't seen your home in ages, it feels like. A lifetime. Your father is waiting out front, fretting, and if you didn't know better, you'd say he looks a bit thinner. As soon as the horse stops, he's rushing to you, catching you up in a crushing hug.

"My god, Ezra, what's happened to you - where have you - _Lord,_ " he sighs, like he doesn't know how to feel looking at you. Pulls back, takes your face in his hands. "What did they _do_ to you, my boy?"

It takes you a moment to answer.

"It hasn't been easy," you tell him, finally, lamely. "That night--"

"What night? Which night?"

You tell him. The night you left, you say, and you tell him about the van der Linde gang in your home, as you make your way through the halls, soaking in the familiar sights. You tell him about Dutch, the way he's mangled you, and you see your father burn with fury for the first time. You leave out the bank robbery, but tell him about Guarma, about Lakay.

You don't tell him the things you've done with those men. You'll take that to your grave.

"My god, son. The things you've been through. I am so - so sorry."

"We didn't know any better."

Your cough is subsiding, but there's still a faint tickle in your chest. You clear your throat, looking away.

"There's - something else. One of the men who took me had tuberculosis, I believe. And now I have it as well."

He looks devastated. Looks even more upset than you at the news. He gathers you up in his arms again, shaking.

"Oh, Ezra," he says, and you feel emotion bubbling up past the walls you've had to build in Dutch's presence. No time for fear, for sorrow. "My poor boy."

Now that emotion comes full force. It's a whimper at first, and then a sob. Then you're burying your face in his shirt and crying, until your head hurts, until you can't hardly breathe.

It takes a while. Your father sits down with you and lets you heave it all out, and when you're done, when you spin off into another coughing fit, he sends you to bed.

You hit the cushions and sleep like you're dead.

\---

In the days after, it's hard to find a purpose.

There's work, certainly, piled up in your absence. What little your father attempted to do is wrong. The cattle need managing again, sorting, your entire breeding schedule is off, and you have plenty to keep you busy during the day.

But in the dark, you spend too much time sitting on the porch, a bottle of whiskey at your side as you stare out over the prairie.

You wonder about the gang. Tilly, and Grimshaw, and little Jack, and the girls. Dutch.

Arthur, who killed you and didn't even know it. Arthur who is dying.

You start heading into Saint Denis more often, always at night. You find yourself in the saloons, and before long, you find yourself at the card tables, playing less for the money you don't need and more for the thrill when those sore losers pull guns in your face and call you a cheater.

It's not your fault they can't count cards.

You shoot a man, one night, because he screams in your face and pulls a pistol on you. And you don't feel even slightly bad when he falls, dead. The law sides with you, and you go home that night with a healthy take, and you sleep perfectly well.

The world, you've found, isn't always so black and white. There's healthy shades of gray too. And the more time you spend here, the more you realize that this life, it's… lacking, now. Now that you've seen what else is out there.

One night, after your father begs you not to go to the saloons again, you go to the saloons again. You walk in and see a drunken woman pounding whiskeys and shouting loud at a familiar older man.

It's impossible not to recognize Molly O'Shea, especially in this state. You walk up to her and that Uncle fellow you've seen around Dutch's camp, dazed, and the moment she turns eyes on you, she roars.

"Oh, _look_ who it is, God Almighty's concubine." You immediately flush, looking at the way everyone in the bar is looking at you now. "What the hell do you want, you little whore?"

"Molly, please." You raise your hands, trying to calm her. "Do you know where Archibald is?"

"Archibald? Who in the bloody fuck is Archibald--"

"I know," Uncle says, dragging Molly by the arm towards the door. "Out past Annesburg. Help me get her out of this bar and I'll take you there."

You need to tell Arthur he's dying, at the very least. Need to see him one more time, and then you'll - you'll figure out what you want to do with the rest of your short life, because it isn't tending fucking cattle.

"We need to go somewhere first," you tell Uncle. Merlin makes a low sound when he sees you, head bobbing in greeting as you pat his cheek and slide up on his back. "I have to pick something up."

Molly follows you to your horse, shockingly.

"Are you gonna help me up or what, you lousy bastard?"

"Of course, Miss O'Shea."

You help her up onto Merlin and set off towards your home, Uncle a ways back to make sure no one is following.

"Are you alright, miss?"

"Go to hell, you sack of shit," she slurs, and you fall into silence. Then she speaks up, leaning sloppily over your shoulder. "What's he like so much about _you,_ anyhow? What's so special about _you?_ "

"He?"

"Dutch."

"I'm--"

You're at a loss for words in that moment, because nothing is special about you to him. He doesn't like you. Just fucks you, occasionally, and cuts pieces off of you, and puts you into contact with men who give you tuberculosis.

"I'm nothing to him," you tell her, your voice uneven. "Just entertainment."

"He talks about you." She lays across your back, arms slung around your middle, her weight pushing you forward in your saddle. "You and Arthur. Said he was a better father to you than yours was, he did."

"Did he, really?" you say, tersely. What a bastard. "What else does he say about me?"

"Says you look better inna underwear than I ever did," Molly says, low and miserable, and your heart hurts for her. "Says you're an easier fuck."

"You realize he forces me into those things, don't you?"

"S'not how he sees it. He's a right bastard, Ezra, he ruined my _life._ " She sounds on the verge of tears, her voice broken from the screaming and the drink. "I had a good life before him, I did."

"Didn't we all?"

She's quiet for a few minutes, like she's thinking. You're close to your ranch now.

"I loved him," she says, miserable. "I _loved_ that bastard. Did you?"

"Did I--"

You make an indecipherable noise. Did you love Dutch? No, never. But there's a fearful kind of awe in you when it comes to Dutch, now, and maybe there's a part of you that craves his acceptance. That wants to please, now.

"No," you tell her, hurrying your horse. "I didn't."

"Didn't think so. Good idea, wish I'd - wish I'd had it," she slurs, and leans over the horse, puking.

At the ranch, your father meets you at the door, like he always does. This time, with your company, he hurries to you.

"Ezra, who are these people?" He sees Molly, half slumping off the horse when you slide off. "I wanted you to meet women, but did you have to find them at a _saloon?_ Take her back whereve you found her this instant."

"Oh, piss off, you tubby little arse."

Your father flusters. You pass him by, heading inside to your study, ignoring him as he follows.

"Ezra? What are you doing?" You take your pistols off the mantle, and he grabs your arm fiercely. "Whatever you're doing, I forbid it. Do you understand me? I--"

"I have unfinished business," you tell him, shrugging him off. You head to your floor safe, the second one under the rug, and dig out the single gold bar your grandfather had given you as a boy. "I'm sorry."

"Ezra--"

"Don't come looking for me," you say, heading back out to the horses, shrugging him off when he tries again and again to stop you. "I'll come back."

Or you won't.

"Why are you doing this?" your father says, as you saddle up again. "Why are you still living like this? Like an outlaw?"

You don't have an answer for that. Just pull Merlin in the other direction and set off after Uncle.

"Why're you doing this?" Molly says, once you're out of eyesight from the ranch. "Takin' me back. I never did nothin' for you."

"Because it's the right thing to do," you tell her.

"You ain't the type to do the right thing," she slurs. "You're just like them, aren't you? Just like the rest of his _boys?_ "

You say nothing as she slumps against your back again, and the rest of the ride up to Beaver Hollow is a quiet enough one.

Just like the rest of his boys, she says. You don't know how you feel about it.

\---

"So, Dutch. Did you miss me?"

You watch Molly nearly fall off your horse as she heads for him, claws out. Dutch is clean and neat again, not sure whether to look at her, disdain on his face, or at you, suspicion in his eyes. The surprise on Arthur's face, plain as day.

You watch Molly carry on, a helpless bystander.

"Yeah I came here with your little _whore,_ " she howls, as the rest of the camp gathers around. "I brought him back for you, is that what you wanted, Dutch? Your favorite piece of arse?"

"Will you keep your voice down," Dutch hisses, as you turn a new, fascinating shade of red. Everyone is looking at either Molly or you now.

"I will _not_ be quiet, Dutch van der Linde! Not by you, or him, or her, or your bedwarmer--"

She carries on. Tells Dutch she betrayed the lot of you, and before you know it, Molly O'Shea is dead at your feet, her guts blown out like grisly confetti.

You find yourself transfixed, staring at the corpse until they haul it away. Dutch takes you by the arm and drags you to his tent immediately, before anyone else can get a chance to so much as say a word to you.

"She's dead," you say, breathless.

"Why are you back here?" Dutch says, instead, grabbing you by your arms tight enough to hurt, shaking you. " _What did you tell them?_ "

"Dutch, Molly--"

"Will you forget about her for a second and _answer me?_ "

You sober up. Look at him, eyes narrowing. "You don't even care, do you?"

"And you're saying you _do?_ " He scoffs. "You didn't even know her. And neither did I, apparently. Now, the question at hand, if you would be so kind."

"No," you tell him, deadpan, "I didn't. I told them you tied me to a tree the entire time."

"Good," he says, distracted, like his thoughts are racing a mile a minute. He lets go of you, turns to pace across his tent. "Good. Were you followed?"

"Of course not."

"Are you _sure?_ "

"Dutch, this - it's all insane. What's going on out there? What's happening to this--"

" _Nothing_ is happening to this camp. We just need some money, need to get on our feet again. That's all."

A pause. He seems to breathe, to think.

"You came back." You glance up at Dutch's words. "I didn't think - that you would come back."

"I didn't either," you tell him, honestly. "I just - I can't live the life I did, anymore. Now that I know what's out here."

Now that you know how much more _meaningful_ things are out here, living rough. Life and death. You feel like you're making some kind of history out here, even if it isn't the best, and you can't give up that self-importance, not now.

Maybe that makes you a bad person. An outlaw. Maybe you like it.

"I understand, son." Dutch palms your cheek, thumb dragging under your eye. "I absolutely understand. That's no life for a man."

You reach into your pocket, push the gold bar into his hand.

"It's not much," you say, "but it should keep the camp going for a few weeks."

Dutch stares at the gold in his hand, like he doesn't know what to say. Looks at you. Then he's running his fingers over your cheek, through your hair, cupping the back of your head until he can pull your forehead against his chest.

"So loyal." His lips are in your hairline, and you tremble slightly in his touch. "This'll help us, son. I don't know how to thank you."

"You don't have to."

"I'm sure I'll come up with something," he says against your hairline, and pulls back. "Go on, Micah and I have some plans to discuss. Mr. Pearson could use more game, why don't you go hunt us up something for dinner, son."

"Yes, Dutch," you say, and he doesn't correct you.

You leave the tent feeling some way about it all. Like you've finally been accepted, fully. Everyone in the camp looks like absolute hell though, and the more you look around, the more you realize they're hiding out in some bloodsoaked, disgusting caves. They're all haunted looking, still stirred up from Molly's death. Things have never looked more grim.

Arthur, when he walks up to you, looks like absolute shit. You offer him a weak smile, frowning when he only takes you by the arm and pulls you towards _his_ tent. You hope this isn't going to be a habit with this camp.

"You came back," he says, like it's confusing him.

"Well… yes?" You glancee away, swallowing. "I decided. Like you said, back on the boat."

"Decided?" He thinks back, remembers. "You wanna stay?"

"Yes. I have to see this out." You swallow. "And I don't have that long anyway. I--"

"Tuberculosis," Arthur says, looking down. He looks terrifically guilty. "Yeah. I know."

He's found out too. Knows there must be some connection between the contact you two have had and the disease.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry," he says, and you set a hand on his shoulder, squeezing.

"We can't change it, Arthur. We can only hope to die with some grace. Maybe even a little dignity, if we try."

He looks at you, now. Smiles, just slightly, dips his head until his hat brim hides his eyes. You glance out at the camp to make sure no one is here before taking his face in your hands, leaning in to kiss him.

Just once. Gently. You can't hope to do anything here.

He tugs your lip with his teeth as you pull away, exhaling hard. You make a soft sound in your throat, and then a laugh, stepping back.

"I'll see you around camp," you say.

"Sure," he drawls, sitting back on his bed. "Watch yourself out there."

You trot off to find Mrs. Grimshaw. You need to talk to someone about setting up a tent.


	9. Chapter 9

You don't see Arthur again until the next day, when he rides in with one of the men from the bank robbery, the one that had been caught - John, his name was. And the confrontation is explosive.

_I will take care of you,_ he told you, but he left John for dead. Would he have left you behind just as easily, if it had been you?

You wait until it's all over to go looking for Arthur. He's found a spot under a tree to relax, or as close to it as he can get these days. You sit on the opposite side of that tree, flicking off an errant bug on your shoulder.

"Hell of a week," you say, and Arthur grunts in agreement.

"Feels like things are going bad, fast," he says, under his breath. No one from camp can hear you if you keep your voices down. "Bad time to come back."

"Things were going bad for me back home, too. I have to see this through, no matter where it ends." You cross your legs, uncross them idly. "I think you know the feeling."

"Sure," he says, tired. Coughs. "Feels like I don't know what to be loyal to anymore."

"He keeps asking me about that. If I'm loyal."

"Bein' loyal is all I've ever been loyal to," he says, and you can practically feel how lost he is. You feel it too. "And now, everything is just--"

"Crazy, I know."

The two of you fall silent, for a moment. Then you're standing, offering him your hand. He looks at you curiously.

"Let's go for a ride," you say, and he seems to consider it. "Anywhere. You know better than anyone how badly a man can need fresh air."

Arthur accepts, after a moment. Takes your hand and pulls to his feet with a light coughing spell, waving you off when you offer him your arm.

"Alright. Let's go." He looks at you, on the way to your horses. "Where to?"

"I don't know yet. Wherever the hunting is best, I suppose." You glance back at him. "Is that alright?"

Arthur manages a smile for you. It's tired, but it's there.

"Sure."

\---

Hunting near here is fantastic, as it turns out. You both come out of it with loaded horses, and you even make it out with a cougar, albeit a small one. You both make it out without any major coughing fits. It's a good hunt, really.

Arthur is the one to speak first.

"We should get back to camp, but..."

"But we could just as easily come back tomorrow," you say, and he gives a short nod, relaxing some. The more time both of you spend away from camp, the better, as far as you're concerned, and Arthur seems to feel similarly.

Around a campfire, things feel… not _better,_ exactly, but calmer. Maybe the colors igniting at sunset give you some of your color back. Maybe Arthur's death rattles are quieter at rest like this, quieter still when you pass him a flask of whiskey and poppy seed tincture.

You feel at peace. The feeling doesn't come often these days.

"Ezra," Arthur says, and you glance up from the fire. "What're your plans, for all this?"

"My plans?"

"When it finally all goes bad. When Dutch finishes losing his damn mind."

What are your plans, exactly? You hadn't expected the end to come so soon, either to your life or to this gang. It feels like time is moving so fast these days, slipping out of your fingers. And still, when you compare Arthur's puffy eyes and sickly skin to yourself, still reasonably healthy, you can't help but feel you're running out of time here too.

Like you're not dying fast enough.

"I thought about losing a gunfight," you say, looking down at your hands. "Or robbing a bank by myself, something ridiculous like that, but I don't know. I'm just... waiting, I suppose."

"We ain't got time to wait."

"I know, I know. I just--"

Feel like you don't know what you should do first, with all of it falling apart so quickly. Maybe there isn't even any point in trying to talk sense to Dutch when Micah's in his ear, maybe he's too far gone. Maybe you should've just stayed with your father.

But it's all beside the point now.

"You need to decide where you're going once all this is done with. With the way Dutch is carryin' on, the Pinkertons could be on our heads any day now."

"Assuming I don't get shot by the law? I'll probably travel. Have some fun, God knows I never had any growing up." You look at him. "What about you?"

"Oh, me?" He tips his head, the brim of his hat hiding his eyes. "I'll probably take a vacation myself. I hear Tahiti's nice."

You can't help the wry grin, glancing down into the fire again. God, there's never going to be a Tahiti, or a New Guinea, or a New York, is there? Beaver Creek is it. You can feel that much in your bones.

You don't want to think about that. So you stand, sidling around the fire until you can sit beside Arthur, and you press a kiss on him, wanting to think about anything besides the end (of you, of this gang, of these people, of Arthur).

After a moment, he reciprocates. Parts his lips with a low noise, soft and hungry, and wraps an arm around you, his hand sprawling across the space between your shoulders to keep you close. You cup his cheek with your hand and nip at his lips, turn your head when he gets to coughing again.

"'m sorry," he coughs, and can't seem to stop, his coughs turning wet and soupy. "I--"

You only push closer, until his chin is in the crook of your neck, your hands working at his pants. He sucks in a desperate breath when you pull his cock free, stroking him.

"Ezra," he says, muffled against your skin, and you hum in response.

"I've got you." You pull away, but only far enough to kiss him again now that his coughs have died down. He pushes forward, until you're sprawled flat across the dirt, legs spreading enough for him to slip between.

You smile at him, reaching up to cup his face, tug him down. He practically lays on you now, you notice, wheezing when he sits up, and you worry if he can still do this at all.

"We don't have to."

"Why? 'Cos I sound like hell?" He scoffs. "I'm fine."

He's not. Really, he's just a mirror showing you what you have to look forward to, and you… don't want to think about that right now, of all times. So you sit up, kissing him again, your hands flat on his chest to push at him until he's the one lying flat.

You take a seat on his thighs, wrapping your hand around his cock again, and Arthur makes a flustered, incoherent noise, his head falling back to the dirt.

"I know what you're doing," he drawls, but there's tension in his voice, moreso when you tighten your grip on his dick.

"I have no idea what you mean, Arthur."

"You're just tryin' to get me to sit still. I don't need a damn nursemaid."

"I would never," you say, stroking him slow and firm, until his hips lift off the ground with every stroke. "I only thought it might be a bit more interesting to change things up. No better time to do it, considering how we're dying and all."

"You keep sayin' that--"

You duck down and drag your tongue over the tip of his cock, and Arthur interrupts himself with a low noise in his throat.

This, you like this. It feels easy, feels right. Feels good to dip down and kiss Arthur again, sprawling out along the length of him, letting him feel the hard line of your cock against his thigh. He makes a soft sound, grabs you by the arms and pulls you up until he can press his lips to yours again.

"Didn't bring any--" he starts, but you pull out a tin of petroleum jelly, dropping it on his chest smugly. (That visit to town was more than worth it.) He huffs, plucking it up, and grips your thigh. "Turn around."

You do, lifting yourself off of him long enough to turn and sit down again, straddling his thighs. Your breath comes in sharper when you feel his fingers tucking into the waistband of your pants, and you fumble the button open, making it easier for him to inch them down your thighs.

You hear the tin pop open. Try not to tense in the silent moments that follow. When he finally, _finally_ nudges at you with slick fingers, you sigh, knees squeezing just that little bit more around Arthur's legs as he presses the first finger into you.

Really, it's pretty easy these days, the prep work. You try not to think too hard about that.

Then, when Arthur works himself up to the last knuckle, thrusting steadily, you gasp. His other hand finds your cheek, his touch rough and warm as he spreads you, and you press a hand over your mouth, as if it'll muffle the feeling of being so exposed.

"Pretty little thing," Arthur murmurs, and you feel the flush all over, knees squeezing at him as he works the second finger in. "Let's see you work for it, boy."

It's _boah,_ with his accent, but you get the idea. It's a good thing you only do this out in the middle of nowhere, because god help you if you had to stay quiet through this, as Arthur pumps two rough fingers in you, searching, until--

"Arth--" you gasp, but never manage the rest, smothering a groan into your hand.

"That the spot?" He presses there again, curling his fingers, and you tense at the sudden thrum of pleasure. "Good. Stay right there, now."

Stay right here and let him turn your own body against you, apparently, because he doesn't seem to be in any hurry to get to the fucking. Maybe he's never gotten to focus on this part before, because when you sneak a glance back at him, his brow is furrowed in concentration, tongue tracing the edge of his teeth.

He scissors his fingers. You grip at his knee, nails digging in.

And then you feel him nudge at you with a third. You both stop, and you, you suck in a breath.

"'S this alright?" he asks, somwhere behind you. And you nod, short and tight.

_Three_ is a stretch you're not used to, and you make a high noise in your throat as he presses in with them. Arthur isn't a man with small hands. But the tense ache is something you're familiar with now, and you try to breathe your way through it, focusing on the occasional thrum of pleasure when he shifts his fingers just right.

And then he presses them in, all three of them at once curling and pressing at just the right angle, and your cry is loud enough to scare birds out of a nearby tree. You clap a hand over your mouth, heart thrumming at the sound of laughter behind you.

"There?"

"Shut up," you say, and he does it again, harder. Until you're whimpering. Until you dip your head and dig your nails into his legs, your breaths coming short and raspy, cock long past hard. "Arthur--"

"There?" he asks again, amused.

" _There,_ " you choke, cooperative this time, and he pulls his fingers out. You practically whine at the absence, looking back behind you. "Arthur?"

You barely have the time to look before he's pulling you down onto his cock, a rush of a groan somewhere behind you as Arthur seats himself. Your noises are sharper, surprised - like how you go from straddling him to filled in an instant, tensing around him, your body still in shock.

Arthur coughs again, behind you. You try not to think about it, hands on his thighs for support as you lift yourself up, come back down onto him slow. He settles a hand on your hip to keep you moving, pulling and pushing where necessary, and the other works up under your shirt, drags up and down your spine.

"S'it hurt?" he asks, when you're too slow, and you duck your head a bit.

"Ah - just a bit--"

"Let's slow down," he rumbles, and you nod, grateful that Arthur is more forgiving than Dutch. "Alright?"

"Alright."

It's nice, just sitting there for a few moments. Letting yourself adjust. Arthur rubs a hand up and down your side, coaxes you into relaxing; you wish you could kiss him again, right now. Wish you could go away from this place, take him somewhere far away from Dutch. Maybe somewhere tropic and humid, so it'd kill the two of you off quick instead of some miserable, lingering affair.

But that's never going to happen, and you know that. Know that as much as he seems to hate Dutch for the things he's doing lately, that Arthur is never going to leave his side. Can't. Dutch has the hooks in too deep.

You roll your hips and try not to think about it. Feels good, feels fucking _great,_ and Arthur's hands find your hips soon enough, guiding you into a quick, hard rhythm. The kind that obliterates thought. The kind that has you making all sorts of embarrassing noises as Arthur slams you down onto his cock, heels digging into the dirt so he can get the support he needs to fuck up into you in short, hard movements.

It's good. It's so good.

But it doesn't last. Neither of you have the stamina for that these days, but especially Arthur, who has to stop for a coughing fit while you ride him, still urging you up and down onto his cock like the coughing is just an annoyance. You finish first, stroking yourself off into the dirt with a sharp, throaty noise, and Arthur groans when he comes, a belly-deep sound that peters off into more coughing.

An excellent time, you suppose, for you to start coughing too. It's a less than romantic end to the encounter, sliding off of him breathlessly, chasing every breath half-naked in the dirt.

Arthur finishes his fit before you, sitting up and patting your back while you spit a mouthful of ruddy pink.


	10. Chapter 10

The two of you ride back into camp late, Arthur telling you some story about when he was a young man, the sort of trouble he'd get into, how Dutch and Hosea had to fish him back out of it. They're good stories. Happier stories than the ones you two have now.

He's about to say something else, but then--

"Ezra." Dutch's voice has you glancing up. He's walking over, stopping a good ten or so feet away. Eyes Arthur, for a moment. "There you are. Out all day with Arthur, hm? Come here for a moment."

You glance at Arthur as you get up, and Dutch is quick to spirit you further into camp, away from him.

"What did you need, Dutch?"

"I need you to ride with me. Micah, you too," he adds in passing, _of course,_ and Micah slithers his way out of his tent, coming to clap you on the back.

"Well, if it ain't ol' Deadeye. It'll be good to spend some quality time together."

"I can't wait," you drawl, shrugging off his touch. You all mount your horses, and Merlin whinnies low when Micah nears, leering at him.

"Nice horse. Best money can buy, huh?"

"A certain caliber of man deserves a certain caliber of horse."

"Come on now, boys." Dutch looks back at the two of you. Arthur is looking at your group, you realize, and you give him a nod. "Let's ride."

You ride up north, into the mountains. The two of them stop at a clearing that looks like it's been used recently, hitching their horses and tracing their way towards what looks like a makeshift little camp spot. There's big rocks to sit on, and Dutch takes a seat on one now, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He offers you one, and scoffs when you shake your head.

"What's wrong, son? Can't handle your smoke?"

You just don't think it's a good idea, considering you have a fatal lung condition and all, but you're not about to tell Dutch that. You take the cigarette, lean in when he lights it for you.

"Things are bad, Dutch," you tell him, already feeling a cough build in your chest.

"I know."

"If you ask me," Micah cuts in, "Dutch is doing the best he can. We can't all be _perfect_ like you and Morgan."

"I'm just saying--"

"And I'm _listening,_ " Dutch drawls, interrupting you. "I am. I understand things aren't the best they've been right now, but all of that is going to change. Soon."

"Th--" you start, but dissolve into coughing, and you realize the both of them are looking at you now.

"You whole and hale over there, Deadeye? Soundin' a little _under the weather_ over there."

"I'm _fine,_ " you cough. "Just a cough."

"Are you, now?" Dutch asks, puffing on his cigarette. "If you're not fit, Micah and I could continue this by ourselves."

"No, I'm fine." You know a secret meeting when you see one, and you've been invited. You're not about to waste the opportunity. "What was it you needed to see me about, Dutch?"

"Micah, we still have some scouting left to do. If you would. Be back by sundown." Dutch looks to you now. "Ezra and I have something to discuss, still."

"Sure, boss," Micah drawls, leering at you as he passes by. "Don't have too much fun without me, now."

Eugh. You try not to pull a face as you watch him go. It isn't until he's disappeared into the treeline that you look to Dutch, coming to sit opposie him on another rock.

"What is it, Dutch?"

"I need to know that you're ready. No matter what's coming. No matter _who_ is coming." He leans in, eyes you steadily. "Do you understand, Ezra?"

"I'm not sure I do."

"Micah thinks there's a rat."

"Oh, of _course_ he does," you drawl, sitting back. "Isn't that convenient? That everything was fine until just now, we suddenly have a rat?"

"You're starting to sound just like Arthur."

That shouldn't be a bad thing, but his tone implies he thinks otherwise. You shift uncomfortably, and after a moment of watching you squirm, he crooks a finger.

"Come closer."

It's automatic, the way you pick up and cross over towards him. Couldn't tell him no if you tried, and you're not sure, anymore, if it's from fear or the need to please. You stop in front of him, and he stands, dwarfing you by a foot or more.

"I need to know that you're _with me,_ " he says, low, urgent. His eyes glitter like dim jewels in his head, and god, he looks so _genuine,_ so painfully earnest. "Me, and no one else."

"Of course--"

"Don't just tell me what I want to hear."

He's caught you. You swallow, your hands on his arms, and struggle to meet his eyes as he speaks.

"Tell me the truth. Are you _with_ me?"

"Yes," you say. "I wouldn't have come back if I weren't behind you, would I? Dutch. You have to trust me."

Dutch huffs a sound that could be a laugh, maybe. Isn't quite.

"Have to trust you. Yes." Like he's a million miles away again. "Is that how you convinced Arthur to trust you? Those emotional appeals of yours?"

"Is that what this is about? Arthur?" Your voice lowers. "Or are you accusing me of something, Dutch?"

He says nothing, for a moment. Just stares you down, like he's going to find out whether or not you're the traitor if he looks at you hard enough.

"Cornwall," he starts, tersely, "is going to be in Annesburg soon. You, Micah and I are going to pay him a visit."

"A gentleman's visit, I hope?"

"You could say that." His hand is still on your arm. "Are you with me, or not?"

"Sure, I'm with you. But I say we take Arthur."

"Now you have demands?" he says, an incredulous laugh on his breath. "What is the world coming to these days? What happened to _trust?_ "

You say nothing, looking down at his chest. He tilts your head back up, and then he's almost close enough to kiss, his breath ghosting over your cheek. You wonder, idly, if being this close to him isn't somehow going to get him sick.

You wonder if he doesn't deserve it.

But he doesn't kiss you. Hasn't been so affectionate since you and Arthur developed coughs, you've noticed, and you can only wonder if it's the same for him. If he's just written you off as the weak members of the herd, and he's just waiting for you to totter off and die somewhere.

"I'm starting to wonder where your loyalties really lie here, son."

"I didn't realize you and Arthur were on opposing sides," you say, stalling, because this isn't good - Dutch questioning you like this, it isn't good. Bad things happen to the people Dutch questions, you've noticed.

He stares at you, a moment. Smiles, showing teeth.

"Of course not. Son. We're all part of the same family here, aren't we?"

You wonder, these days.

"I just worry," he says, slow and even, as far from worried as could be. "That's all. I worry about you boys running around, doing whatever strikes your fancy. Not _thinking._ "

"We think plenty."

"And breaking John out of prison at gunpoint, when the law is breathing down our necks? You call that _thinking?_ "

You don't have an answer for that one. Dutch squeezes your arm, a ghost of reassurance.

"I ain't trying to make your life hard here, son. I'm trying to keep all of us alive." He's smiling, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "You understand that, don't you, Ezra?"

"Of course, Dutch," you answer, automatically, sensing the danger. He palms your cheek. "We just - don't always see things the way you do, I suppose."

"Oh, there's no _supposing_ about that. It's clear you boys have certain feelings on the way I do things."

You swallow, thickly. Dutch's fingers slide down, graze over your throat.

"What exactly do you and Arthur talk about, on your little trips?"

Should've known. Should've seen this coming, that he would eventually eat his own. You take a moment too long to answer, scrambling for some kind of response you think would satisfy him, and there's a look in his eyes like he's thinking about killing you, now.

You make a decision. Survival over discretion.

"We fuck," you say, too loud, and Dutch has to laugh, a soft sound. Seems mildly surprised by your openness, maybe.

"Is that what you get up to?"

He leans in, cheek brushing yours, lips at your ear.

"I thought you and Arthur weren't _intimate_ anymore."

You catch yourself trembling at the warm puff of Dutch's breath down your neck.

"We - usually aren't, but things happen." You swallow. "Dutch?"

"And here I thought I was your favorite."

Jealousy. Dutch doesn't wear it well, a low heat to his tone like you've done something wrong, and you shrink from his touch just as surely as he presses forward, until you're chest to chest and you can feel his voice somewhere behind your ribs.

"Come here, son."

You're not sure how you get the nerve to push him back. Wherever it came from, you should've sent it back, because the _second_ you see his face, you know you've done something deeply wrong.

"Dutch, no," you say, uneven, and he just looks at you for a moment. Like what you've said doesn't make sense.

"No?" he says, soft.

"No, I--"

The backhand comes so quick, it catches you entirely by surprise. Sends you to the dirt, even, it's that hard, and the sting on your cheek tells you that his rings must have left a mark of their own. He steps over you, now, stands over you, and you've never felt quite so small in his presence.

"I said," he starts, reaching down for you, " _come here, son._ "

There's no getting away from him like this, when he gets down on his knees to tighten his fist in your shirt, hauling you up off the ground by it. You don't fight him - just look at him, wary to touch him in case you come away bitten, bracing for the next blow.

"Better. Now, when I ask for you--" He pulls you up a bit by your shirt, shakes you until you're looking at him. "--the only thing I want to hear out of you is _yes, Dutch._ Understand?"

"No," you tell him again, bolder, forcing yourself upright. "That's not - how this is going to work, Dutch."

Dutch looks at you, again. Sighs, like he's dealing with a difficult child.

"I wonder," he starts, slow and easy, "what kind of money we could get out of your father."

You perk up in the worst way. Your father, grieving his outlaw son.

"You've got a nice enough little house. Your daddy must have something stashed away for a rainy day." Dutch tilts his head, eying you. "You want to pay him a visit, son?"

"No," you say, small, and take the hand he offers. "I'll - we can do whatever you want, Dutch, just leave him out of all of this."

"You sure? I'm sure he'd be happy to see the _prodigal son_ ride in again."

He would be. Would be so happy you came back, in fact, that he'd be wide open for Dutch. You can't afford to let that happen, eying Dutch with something like resentment now, eyes narrowed. He notices, laughs low in his chest.

He doesn't have to hit you or maim you to get you to listen anymore. And you think, very sincerely, of killing him right then. Never _wanted_ to kill someone so much. Never dreamed, quite so intently, of pulling your gun, or your knife, or just plain choking the life out of him with your bare hands.

You could do it, out here. Leave Micah to find the mess. Get gone.

"You gonna do this, son, or are we just wasting time?" Dutch drawls, and you realize your hand is on your gun. He may be speaking easy, but he's rapt, hand resting on the handle of his own.

You want to. You want to so badly.

But the coughs seize you, and the spell is broken. Whatever courage you might have summoned in that moment is gone, and you choke on a cough so hard it bends you in half. It's agonizing. Feels like someone started a fire in your chest, and every breath burns hotter than the last. God, it hurts.

But Dutch isn't rushing to your aid. He just watches as the coughs bend you over, and then watches still as you collapse, still and silent as the grave as you die.

Well, you're not dying. Not yet. But it sure as hell feels like it.

You suck in a wet breath and wipe your bloody hand on the grass, biting down on another cough as you dig for your tincture flask. You've barely got the cap off when Dutch kicks it out of your hands, and your shout is swallowed up by more coughs as the contents pour out in the dirt.

The bastard. Absolute bastard.

"I'm sorry, was that important?" he sneers, setting a foot on your chest. "I think this is a perfect time for us to talk."

You wheeze. It's apparently answer enough for him.

"You think I'm cruel?" His shoe digs in. "You think I _enjoy_ doing these things to you, Ezra?"

"Absolutely," you wheeze, barely.

"I do these things because it's what you _need,_ " he says, like he believes it. "Ezra, my boy."

He leans down, foot still on your chest. Most of his weight is on you, now. You can't breathe.

"When I _want_ to hurt you, you'll know."

Like now. How he's watching you suffocate under nothing more than his weight. How he doesn't even have to touch you with his hands, one of them draped over his knee casually as he watches you turn blue, then lilac.

He lifts off. You don't stop coughing, but it gets easier to breathe, and he lets you roll onto your side and hack into the dirt.

"Dutch?"

It's Micah, back already. He trots his horse up close enough to leer down at you, blood spattered across your bluish lips.

"Looks like Deadeye ain't doing so well."

"He'll be just fine." Dutch straightens, looking to him. "Did you get what we need?"

"'Course. Tell you all about it on the ride back to camp."

"Good."

You watch Dutch walk off, trailing out of your field of vision. See him, barely, pull himself onto the Count's back, giving you one last glance. Like he's going to change his mind, come back for you.

He doesn't. Makes a sharp noise to spur his horse on, turning away, and you try to pick yourself up, your arms immediately failing under your weight - you think Micah laughs at that, maybe, as he turns to go.

"Happy trails, partner."

It's quiet, soon enough, besides the rattle in your chest. You relish the absence of Dutch's voice, of Micah's sneer. Just the soft sounds of birds, and the light patter of rain on your face.

Of course it's raining.


	11. Chapter 11

You come back late. It takes so long for the burn in your chest to slide back into its ever-present ache that the rain soaks you to the bone, and you and Merlin ride back shivering, toes numb when they hit the ground just outside camp.

Besides Bill on lookout, it looks like everyone is asleep. Even Dutch's lights are out.

Back in your tent, you slough off your wet clothes and shiver at the rush of air over bared, wet skin. You've got a little shaving mirror set up in the corner, and you look at yourself now, touch the dried blood in lines across your cheek, down over your lip. You wonder if Dutch ever washes his rings.

The flutter of your tent. You turn with your hand on your gun, only to see Arthur, his hands raised in surrender.

"Easy," he says, tired, more tired than usual, and in the candlelight you finally see the change in his features as he comes closer. He looks like someone hit him, hard; he's got a wicked bruise building on his cheekbone, a fat lip. "You alr--"

He doesn't get to finish. You come to him, hands gentle on his face as you touch him. Ghosting over the bruise, thumbing so softly at his lip. He seems stunned by the attention, the care.

"You alright?" he says, again, low. "You look like--"

"Like you do," you say, just as tired. "Arthur."

"I'm fine."

"You don't look--"

"I said I'm _fine,_ " he snaps, and you pull your hands from his face, setting them on his shoulders instead. He wheezes, reaches up for your wrists like he's thinking of pushing them off.

But he doesn't. Just settles his hands on your own, his breath rattling in and out of him.

"What happened?"

"Dutch," he says, and it's all you really need to hear. "Had a--"

"A gentleman's disagreement, I know. It was the same with me."

"It was?" He looks down at you, strangely enough. "You alright?"

"I'm fine," you say, and realize you're mimicking him. You're not fine, either of you. You sigh instead, wrapping your arms around him. "I'm - surviving."

"Yeah," he says, a hand settling on the space between your shoulders, thumb sweeping over your nape. "I know the feelin'."

"You sure?"

"Why do you keep asking?

"'Cos of this," he says, touching your injured cheek. Then he presses his finger into the spot where Dutch dug his heel in, and you wheeze in pain. It's going to bruise horribly. "And this."

"What happened?"

"You know what happened." You pull out of his grip, turning to look yourself over in your mirror. You look tired, pale. The dark circles under your eyes have deepened. "We disagreed on something, he put pressure on me. He always has. I don't know why you're so interested now."

"Because--" He stops short, fumbling for the words. Searches your face in the mirror's reflection, and almost, _almost_ says something. But he seems to change his mind, mouth closing again, jaw tightening. "Because I know you ain't done nothin' wrong. You don't deserve it."

You smile, soft. Turn, to reach up and touch his face, fingers grazing that ever-present five o'clock shadow.

"Oh, Arthur. So moral these days. Are you trying to get into Heaven?"

"I'm _tryin'_ to fix this," he says, sharp. "I'm--"

You lean up and kiss him, a chaste press of lips. They look hard, but you've never felt a softer kiss when he relaxes into it, returns it.

He makes a noise against you when you break, breathing over his cheek.

"You can't fix this," you tell him. "We can't fix anything here. Not anymore."

He sags into you, and you have to brace yourself against his weight, the press of his beaten face into your shoulder. Like an oversized dog, and that would be funny if you didn't feel like maybe this is Arthur's last shred of dogged faith that things will work out fail him.

He doesn't cry. He's not soft like you. But he does stay there for what feels like so long, your arms circling him, patting his back when he starts to cough into your shoulder.

"Arthur," you say in his ear, soft. "Will you spend a little time with me tonight? I'll be quiet."

"You sure you can?" he teases, tired.

"We won't do - _that,_ " you say, stumbling for some way to explain the fucking that doesn't sound downright obscene. "Just let me touch you. Is that alright?"

"Sure."

He finds your cot, takes a seat. You pull the tent shut - that gold bar bought you a nicer tent, courtesy of Dutch, and this one actually closes - and come to him, leaning forward, setting your hands on his knees. His undereyes are darker than yours, puffy, his face bloodless and battered. You both look like death.

But he's still beautiful. Still has those soft blue eyes that find yours now, and he leans in, forehead bumping yours. You both breathe, for a second, mercilfully easy.

And then his arms are finding your waist, wrapping around it, pulling you flush. You make a soft noise into his mouth as he kisses you, and he breaks it to murmur into your neck, his thumbs hooking in the waist of your pants.

"Quiet, boy," he says, in that low demanding tone that thrills you, and you exhale sharply into his hair. "You're mine, now."

He mouths over your shoulder, teeth and tongue pressing into your skin, leaving marks. Always low enough to hide underneath a shirt, always so considerate. They're still _there,_ though, red teeth-shaped spots that'll bloom into purples with time.

"Dutch is jealous," you say, barely above a whisper, and Arthur makes a low noise in his throat. "Of you."

"He ain't jealous of me," he says, tongue dragging over your pulse. You shiver in his arms, your hand flattened over the quick thud of his heart. "Nothin' to be jealous of. He wants _you._ "

You hadn't dared thought of it like that. Feels a bit storybook, doesn't it? Or trashy romance novel? The fair soul beset by two handsome suitors vying for your attention? If it were written word, you'd call it tacky.

But Arthur draws your attention away from that with another kiss, his teeth worrying your lip, and you fold against him.

"Can see why," Arthur drawls, and you flush at the praise. "Jus' look at ya."

He works your pants down, finally, runs his hands up your legs and squeezes your ass in handfuls in a way tht makes you gasp. Your hands find his hair, running through it with just the slightest edge of your fingernails, and Arthur makes a pleasant sound into your mouth when you kiss him again. His grip tightens, squeezing greedily, one of his fingers slipping down to nudge at your hole.

"Arthur," you gasp, but he shushes you.

"Quiet." You nod, biting your lip as he pulls back, his hand sliding down to wrap around your cock instead. "That's right."

His hand feels fantastic. You suffer trying not to make noise under his slow, sure touch as he works you to hardness. You breathe instead, a steady drag as he pumps you in his fist, and when your hips are twitching into it--

"Alright," he says, pulling away, and you shoot him a look that has him fighting down smugness. "Don't look at me like that. Had to get you wantin' it."

"Bastard."

"Sure." His hands drop to his pants now, and he works them open, pulls his cock out. He reaches out for you again, cupping the back of your head and pulling you down, until you're settled comfortably-ish on your knees. "My turn."

Shouldn't be doing this in camp, you know better than that. But Arthur makes the lowest, most choked noise when you swallow him down right away, forcing past the gag to get him in deep. Can't help his soft groan. You press your tongue flat along the underside of him, greedy for more of those sounds.

"Hell, Ezra," he sighs, fingers raking through your hair, and you hum in response, pulling back with a downright obscene wet noise. Arthur's eyes flutter as you sink back down on him immediately, and he idly covers his mouth with his free hand, trying not to look like he's muffling himself.

It's cute. You shut your eyes and suck around him harder, sloppier, and Arthur's hips hitch up into your open mouth, a soft, dragging noise in his throat.

"That's - enough," Arthur gasps, pulling you off by your hair. He follows it up with an apologetic pet when you wince, and then you're leaning in to mouth at his length, pressing it to your cheek as you look up at him. And he _groans_ at the sight. " _Ezra---_ "

From the way he grabs you, pulls you up into his lap, you can tell he wants absolutely nothing more than to fuck you right now. Throw you down and carve a place out in you, wanting and waiting just for him like you are. You wonder if anybody's ever _wanted_ him so openly. So honestly.

He hauls you onto the cot, still so much stronger than he looks, and rolls you onto your belly. Presses his chest to your bare back, then, his mouth at your neck as he grabs your hips and pulls them into position, pushes you onto your knees.

"Arthur--"

"Quiet, boy," he huffs, his voice like gravel in his chest, and your heart flutters. You love when he sounds like that, and he knows it. "Jus' settle down, now. I know what you want."

You want him to fuck you. And he wants it too, from the way he spits on your ass, thumb pressing it inside you. You gasp at the friction of it - not as slick as usual, but you're not exactly tight these days anyway, are you? He pulls his hand back for a moment, presses two wet fingers into you, scissors them until you squeak.

" _Arthur,_ " you hiss, urgent. "You can't - I can't--"

"You'll do just fine." He pulls his fingers loose, satisfied, and something blunt bumps up against your hole instead. "Now, you remember what you promised me? Back when you begged me to let you live?"

"I said I'd--"

You swallow, thickly. He tears a shred off your sheets, loops it around your face, between your teeth. A gag.

"You said you'd take care 'a me," he says, husky, and you tremble back against him. "Whatever I needed. Well, now I need you. An' you're gonna stay nice and quiet for me, ain't you?"

You nod, tightly.

"That's a good boy," Arthur grunts, pressing into you. His cock is still slick from your mouth, but there's _friction_ this time, a quiet burn as he fills you right up to the hilt. "Good - ah, shit--"

You groan into the gag, low. He has to go slow like this, steady rolls of his hips that fill you completely, and you make a soft noise each time, glancing back as his hands find your hips. It's almost relaxed, this pace, and you find yourself liking it, stretching out into your sheets as he fucks you.

"Nice an' tight," he drawls in your ear, and you know it isn't true after everything you've done, but it's still nice to hear. "And real pretty."

He brings his hand across your cheek, draws back. Brings his hand across it in a stinging, open palmed smack that makes you yelp, tensing around him. He groans, massaging the spot, and you squirm under the sting, gripping at your pillow.

"Quiet," he reminds you, and grips your hips, his pace picking up. Short, hard stabs of his hips, now, enough to rock you forward into the cot, and you groan when his hand settles on the nape of your neck, pinning you down. He leans down, his voice husky in your ear. "Wanted this, didn't ya? Been thinkin' about this?"

You nod, a desperate noise in your throat, and Arthur tightens a hand in your hair, pulling. Not like Dutch does, not yanking at it, but a steady pull that has tears prickling at your good eye and your cock straining into the sheets. Until he can get your shoulder bared, dipping down to bite, to leave marks, hips working into yours in a steady wet slap of skin on skin.

You garble through your gag, voice high and thin.

"Please--"

" _What?_ " Arthur growls in your ear, hand finding your cock and stroking out of time with his thrusts. "Let's hear it, boy."

_Arthur,_ you moan, as quiet as possible, and he pants in your ear, flattening you into the mattress with short, hard snaps of his hips. _Oh god--_

He's murmuring things in your ear, now. Sweet things. Feels different than when Dutch tells you how good you are, because now it feels like Arthur actually means it, the way he says it. Sweet. Like a lover would.

You wish, keenly, that it was just the two of you. That you were both a million miles from camp, like before, far from Dutch and Micah and everyone else, as much as you like some of them.

Then he coughs, stutter-stopping behind you and pitching forward to hack into his fist, and you wish you could take him home. Put him in your lavish bed, drown him in pillows, have him there. But he'd never agree to that kind of spoiling, would he?

"Arthur," you say again, soft, and his coughs quiet, muffled into his fist. Then his dry lips are pressing between your shoulders, and you gasp softly at the feeling of kisses along your spine, feeling more prominent than it used to. "Yes--"

"I got ya," he says, leaning over you, flattening against your back, an arm wrapping around to pillow your cheek. You lay on it gratefully, lips pressing to his knuckles as he starts to fuck you in earnest again. You kiss his fingers, and he sighs hard, leaning down to press his lips to your temple. "You're just so damn--"

He turns your head, kisses you. Like he doesn't know the words to express what he's feeling, so he's doing this instead, because he knows you can understand this. You groan gratefully into his mouth, a soft gasp when he angles his hips and hits the right spot.

"Arthur!"

It's too loud. Too sharp, even through the gag. He immediately wraps a hand over your mouth, groaning as he bears down on you, fucks you right into the foundations of this cot.

"You gonna come for me, sweetheart?" he purrs in your ear, filthier than anything you've ever heard from him, and you moan desperately down into the sheets, working your hips back into his thrusts. Have to wonder if he didn't learn that dirty talk from Dutch, but that sets off a whole train of thought you aren't prepared for right now. "Come on."

You're babbling, now. Mindless things. _Yes_ and _please_ and _more,_ mostly, but other things, too, low things. His name. Begging him to go harder.

You yelp when he groans and digs his teeth into your shoulder, hips slamming harder into yours, and it's - incredible, fucking incredible, and you come just like that. Your voice cracks on a muffled cry, buried in the pillow, and you shiver out your orgasm into his fist, back against his body as he finishes, teeth digging into your nape to muffle his own sounds.

He drapes over you when he's finished, coughing against your skin, trying to muffle it before it can wake anyone up. You shoulder him back enough to roll over, wrapping your arms around him as he muffles his coughs into your neck.

But he looks lovely when he's done, still flushed with the afterglow as he looks up at you. Color in his cheeks that feels like it's been gone for ages. You kiss him, and he hums against your mouth, presses you down into the cot with his eagerness.

But his breaths are thin, wispy, and there's too many people around.

"You should go," you say, and he seems to pause a moment, then nods. Straightens up, standing and tucking himself away, righting his clothes. You throw your blankets over yourself, ignoring the wet spot as you tug the gag down around your neck, watching him. "Arthur?"

"Yeah, Ezra?"

He turns back to you, and you pull him back down. Kiss him again, and he's so sweet about it, tender and firm in the best kind of way, nipping at your lips and tugging at your bottom lip with his teeth, until you gasp.

"Next time," he says, his voice low and heated, "we do this somewhere else. Wanna hear your voice next time."

"Good idea."

He pulls away before you can kiss him again, turning and ducking out of your tent. You don't speak until he's halfway out, and you're not sure if he hears you or not.

"Be safe, Arthur."


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the spirit of #fuckcovid, here's a fluffy porn chapter where nothing hurts. :')

The next morning, you wake with a chest full of fire.

The first thing you're aware of is dragging in a strangled breath, shooting straight up on your cot just in time to start coughing. Nasty, painful things, too, somehow worse than usual, a stabbing pain in your left chest that seems to worsen with each cough.

When you bring your hand away from your mouth, it's wet. Near black in the dark of your tent, but the copper smell is unmistakable.

Your breath shudders when you force yourself to your feet, stumbling back down. The ever-present ache in your chest is worse, somehow, a burn that leaves you struggling to breathe, and panic settles in your chest.

You wish, for a desperate moment, that someone would come help, somehow. 

But they don't, and you're left to flicker in and out of consciousness, the taste of blood in your mouth. Maybe it's better this way, that no one sees you like this. You don't want Arthur to worry, to feel guilty, and you're not sure that Dutch wouldn't write you off entirely.

You wake later. You're not sure how much later, only that the quiet of a sleeping camp has turned into quiet bustle as people get to work. Your breath has eased, and you cautiously pick yourself up out of the dirt, swaying your way over to your mirror.

You look nightmarish. Pale and trembling, with blood on your mouth and puffy eyes. Above all, you're glad your father can't see you in this condition, dying like this.

It's just a matter of cleaning up. Getting dressed. Pretending this isn't happening. And when you go out, Dutch is waiting on you with a cup of coffee, eying you like he knows something he shouldn't.

"Fancy a ride?" he says, passing you the cup.

You, bleary as you usually are in the mornings, only grunt and throw back the muddy contents, scrubbing your face with your hands. It's getting harder and harder to drag yourself out of bed these days, like your body is insisting you rest.

Dutch's voice cuts through your fog, low.

"Late night?"

"No," you lie, dropping your hands from your face. "Just not sleeping well."

"Someone keeping you up at night? I can talk to them, if they're too loud."

He knows. Has to know. You shake your head anyway, smiling at him like that's going to make him less suspicious.

"Not at all, Dutch. Just--" You cough, a hand to your chest. "--having a little trouble, lately."

"I see."

It seems to have worked, or at least you hope so. Dutch finishes his own coffee, and you elect to take the cups back for you both, affecting meekness. He seems satisfied when you come back, a hand settling into the space between your shoulders as he leads you towards the horses.

Micah is already waiting, mounting his horse when he sees you two.

"Look at you, sunshine." You go to say something, but spin off into coughs instead, and he straightens in his saddle. "You sure you can handle the ride? Not gonna keel over on us, are ya?"

"Of course not," you snap, but you don't have the energy for more venom than that, and Dutch sets off ahead of you two. You follow, of course. It's all you seem to do lately. "Where are we going?"

"We have a social call to make in Annesburg," Dutch says. "You remember, don't you?"

"Cornwall," you drawl, still shrugging off sleep. "Of course. Where's Arthur?"

"Cowpoke's gonna meet up with us later," Micah answers for him, and you hate that he's doing that now. It's irritating. "Three of us got plannin' to do."

"That is, if you're in the condition for it," Dutch adds, glancing back at you. You try to straighten, look healthier.

"Naturally."

"You sure, Deadeye? Lookin' a little pale back there."

"It's the lighting," you lie, because you haven't been feeling all that well lately, not since Dutch kicked over your draught. The fever's back, off and on, with night sweats that wake you up in the early hours of the morning. "You sure you're smart enough for all this _planning?_ "

"Boys, boys." Dutch cuts in, and you both fall resentfully quiet, eyes ahead. "We have an appointment to make."

You ride. Can't help but feel like you're riding into another bad idea.

\---

You're right, too. God dammit.

Now, the feeling that the whole world is closing in on you all isn't new, but it's never been so literal as when Dutch shoots Cornwall down. So many men with so many guns, and you've long since stopped aiming for limbs and started aiming for chests and heads, which is easier than it has any right to be. Feels like the shots just line up when you want them to. Feels so natural.

Feels good. Something you're undeniably good at, and when Dutch says as much in passing, while you're gunning your way out of Annesburg - _good shooting, son_ \- you can't help but feel good about it.

But there's planning, before the chaos. They tell you of the papers Cornwall's man is carrying, how it's going to somehow save you all. That's what carries you through the firefight, Dutch's assurance that this is all for a good purpose. That it isn't just mindless chaos.

It sure feels like that, these days.

When you've all escaped, safe in the forest, Dutch and Micah turn to you and Arthur. You focus on breathing while they talk, for the most part.

"Meet me when you can, Black Lung," Micah finally says, and you pipe in.

"I'll come too."

"Not you," Dutch says, bringing his stolen horse around. "I need you with me. You're the fastest gun I have and things are going to get a hell of a lot hairier before they get any better."

"But--" you start, but stop at Dutch's look. "I really think I should come along to--"

"You heard the boss," Micah drawls, and you shoot him a _look._ Arthur is at your side, sidles closer to reassure you.

"I'll be fine. Done this a thousand times, feels like. Alright?"

"Alright," you say, defeated, and they all seem satisfied. "What do we do now?"

"Let's split up and meet back at camp tonight." Dutch and Micah turn their horses. "Micah, you come with me."

They need to work on the plan, Dutch says, and you can't help but feel like there's no plan these days. That it's whatever pops up in their heads. They leave you two like that, sick and expendable, and you turn to Arthur, feeling more tired than ever.

"Fancy a ride?" you say, drawling, and Arthur coughs. Manages a smile.

"Sure." He turns his horse in the opposite direction Dutch and Micah went, and you turn with him, setting off at a trot. "Where to?"

"Who knows? Somewhere away from here." You pause, thinking. An idea takes you, and it won't let go - you find yourself turning your horse, setting off ahead of Arthur in a new direction. "Actually, I know just the place."

"It ain't somewhere that's gonna get us both killed, is it?" he drawls, tucked in close behind you. "We're wanted men."

"It's a small place just outside Saint Denis. They aren't looking for us there anymore, and the family that runs the place knows me. They'll be glad to take us in."

"What kinda place is it?"

"You'll see," you tell him with a smile, and hurry on. "Come on. We've got a ride ahead of us."

\---

It's near dark when you arrive at the sprawling manor. You slip the men out front some money to take both yours and Arthur's horses around, and then slip the people at the front door some more money.

"Let the Greeves know that Fairchild is here for the evening," you tell him, and he nods, slipping inside. Arthur whistles, looking up at the place.

"You sure they'll let us in?" he jokes, but you sense some genuine uncertainty there, too. "Couple rough types like us?"

"The family knows me. Owes mine, honestly. They'll be happy to have us."

"You never did tell me what kinda place this was."

"The Greeves used to be in money," you say, your voice low as you lean closer to Arthur. "But the patriarch lost everything in a game of cards. They rent the place out to upscale folks, now."

"We ain't exactly upscale."

"They'll live." The door opens, and you plaster on a wide smile as Mrs. Greeves greets you herself, her wrinkled face painted in a smile identical to yours. "Mrs. Greeves!"

"Ezra! How have you been?" She eyes Arthur, eyes narrowing a moment as she steps aside. "Come in. I assume you're staying for the night with this... gentleman?"

"I am." The two of you step inside the opulent foyer, and Arthur seems distinctly small, visibly uncomfortable in such lavish settings. "Are there any other guests?"

"We have a gentleman from Rhodes arriving later tonight--"

"Turn him away," you tell her, pulling out all the money you have. Your shares from all the robberies, from selling hunted game, all of it - it's not an inconsequential chunk. "My friend and I want the place to ourselves tonight. I assume that's something you would be interested in?"

Now, Mrs. Greeves is a greedy old woman, if your memory serves you right, and her eyes light up at the sight of your money. She takes it immediately, thumbing through the bills.

"Of course, Ezra, anything for you. You know our family has such a deep appreciation for what yours has done for us," she says, eyes still on the money. "You and your _gentleman_ would like a room together?"

"I assume that's not going to be a problem?" You raise your brows. "If it is, I can take my money elsewhere."

"Of course not." She puts the bills away, glancing between you and Arthur now. "Of course not, Ezra, we won't judge your _tastes_ here. I can send away the servants for some privacy? After they run your bath, of course."

"Thank you, that would be lovely." You step past her, leading Arthur by the wrist lightly. He follows, after a moment of hesitation. "Where's the bar?"

The bar is in the next room, a sprawling, grandiose thing of polished dark wood and more bottles than you can count. Arthur sits next to you at the bar, orders the same as you when you ask for a bourbon. The bartender busies himself with your drinks, and Arthur leans in.

"You come here often?" he says, clearly resisting the urge to fidget.

"From time to time." You look at him, leaning on the bar. "You seem nervous."

"This ain't exactly where I belong."

"What, somewhere comfortable? I think you can suffer through it for a night." You smile at him, accepting your drink and immediately swallowing the whole thing. The bartender busies himself with your second drink while Arthur drinks his a little more moderately, easy and slow swallows that make the curve of his throat bob.

He's so handsome, even sick. The strong set of his jaw and the crinkle of his cornflower blue eyes, his broad shoulders, his broad hands - there's nothing about him you don't like. Maybe it's the alcohol swimming to your head, but you find yourself admiring him like this, until he realizes what you're doing and glances over.

"What?" he says, voice still thick from the burn, and you shake your head.

"Nothing." Your second drink. You sip on it, savoring the taste this time. "We should have a few drinks and check out our room."

"Alright," he says, finishing his drink, and pushes his empty glass away. "Another."

And another, as it turns out, and another, until the both of you are buzzing with the warm glow of alcohol, stumbling out of your seats and struggling the main staircase, ignoring the judgmental looks of the staff as they lead you to your room.

You think it's beautiful, walking in to sprawl across the massive bed. Arthur just stands there for a moment, before coming to join you, pressing his hand into the mattress.

"Real nice place." He glances at you. "This is what you're used to?"

"More or less." You sit up, kicking off your boots. "What I _was_ used to, anyway. Care to have a bath with me?"

"Uh, sure."

"You seem so eager." Now you take him by his hand, leading him to the adjoining bathroom. It's all done in beautiful white stone, with a sprawling claw foot tub already brimming with steaming hot water. They must have brought it in while you were drinking, how nice. "Come on, a bath won't kill you."

"No, but you might."

"Don't grouse."

You shut the bathroom door behind you, turning the lock, and pull your shirt over your head. Arthur takes the cue, working the buttons of his shirt open while you kick off your pants and undergarments and step over to the bath, testing the water with your hand.

"S'it still warm?"

"It's lovely."

You turn to him, bare chested, and realize how much weight he's lost. You've so rarely seen him naked, used to quick fucks half-clothed in case something (or someone) happened, but even you can tell a great part of his strength is gone. He's wasting away, same as you.

He seems to realize it, too, arms coming up in front of him to grip at his pants when you step close, your hands on his chest. You push his aside, working his pants down his jutting hipbones, and kiss him, chaste and sweet as you push his pants and underwear down to the floor. He steps out of them, never breaking the kiss, pulling you against him skin-to-skin in a warm flush that makes you gasp.

"We should get in the water," you say, and he laughs, pulls away.

"Good idea." He steps over to the water, dips a foot in. Hesitates, a moment, and then settles in further, gripping the sides of the tub as he sinks in with a soft moan that sends you off into all sorts of unclean lines of thought. When you don't join him right away, just standing there staring, he cracks an eye and looks at you. "You comin'?"

"Of course. Right."

You swallow, stepping into the water, and slip smoothly into the tub, and _oh,_ god, it feels - so good. All your aching muscles seem to loosen in the hot water, and you groan, stretching out until your legs tangle with Arthur's. Your chest seems to loosen for the first time in ages, and you breathe easier, just like Arthur does.

You settle your hand on the edge of the tub and shut your eyes, and after a moment, feel Arthur's cover it. Quietly tender, as always, and you find yourself leaning forward in the water, draping your body over his in a way that doesn't crush him with your weight. He spreads his knees, making a soft noise in his throat as you settle against his chest, pressing your lips to his again. Just once, just gently.

"Turn around," you tell him, and after a moment he seems to understand, sitting up as you do and shifting in the tub. When his scarred back is to you, you grab the nearby washcloth and soap, lathering it up before dragging it across his skin. You sweep it over his shoulders, down his spine, and he relaxes into your touch, gripping the sides of the tub for support. "Good?"

"Yeah," he sighs, leaning forward as you scrub the nape of his neck. "Keep going."

"Yes sir," you tease, and he laughs in a rough way that makes you exhale sharply, setting the washcloth aside to work his shoulders with your hands.

He groans sharply as you press and pinch the knotted muscles, kneading them loose, all kinds of soft noises coming out of him now. Must feel nice. You can't help but want him to feel nice after all he's done and been through, after all that Dutch has put him through. Can't help but lean forward to kiss his nape, and then again at the joint of his shoulder - can't help pressing against his back, your mouth on his neck, and trembling at the way he moans, soft.

"I love how you sound," you tell him, and watch the blush creep up his neck. You flutter kisses there, up over his jaw, lips brushing over his ear until he turns around and pulls you against his chest, his face buried in your neck. "Arthur--"

"I got you," he shushes, mouth dragging open and hot just under your ear. You make a sharp noise in your throat when he bites down over the old scar Dutch left on you, covers it with his own mark, and then some. You squirm as his hands drift down your back and squeeze your ass, spreading you wide. "My boy."

He says it so soft, but there's emphasis on that. _My_ boy. It's the first time he's ever said it, and you thrill at the words, pressing down against his muscled thigh.

"You're my boy, ain't you?"

"Yes," you breathe in his ear, feeling his finger nudge at your hole. "Yes, Arthur."

"Just mine?"

You pause, clearly hesitant. His teeth press into your neck, just below your ear, and you moan thinly as he leaves a deep mark you won't be able to hide.

"Do you want that?" he asks, low and unsure, and your heart flutters in your chest.

"Yes. Absolutely." You say it breathlessly, pressing in closer against him. "I want - this."

"Want what?"

You choke on the words. How do you explain in so many words what you want when you don't even know how to word it yourself? You want this comfort, this ease. The way you feel like you can be yourself with Arthur. The feeling of being with someone you can truly rely on.

How do you explain all of that? You can't. But Arthur is wating, his blue eyes on yours, hands on your hips now.

"I want you," you say instead, and Arthur's eyes soften.

"That usually don't work out for most folk," he says, and you laugh against his neck, pulling back.

"Well, it's a little late to tell me that."

"Sure is." He takes the washcloth now, sudsing it up. "Turn around."

You do. He washes you, washes your hair, sweeps the washcloth over your skin in soothing circles long after you're clean. After a while, you find yourself leaning back against him, your eyes shut as he slinks an arm around your middle, fingers splayed on your stomach.

It can't last forever. You still wish it could, because it's so, so nice. But eventually, Arthur is shifting, and you're forced to sit up and let him slide out of the lukewarm water, going for a plush towel. You do the same, pulling the drain as you go, and admire the lines of Arthur's body as he dries himself off. You note the not-entirely-soft line of his cock, too.

Neither of you are entirely dry when you take him by the wrist, leading him back into the bedroom. You fall into the plush bed, dragging him down on top of you with a soft noise of complaint, but it disappears as soon as his bare body is pressed against yours again.

You kiss him, again. Can't get enough of it, of him. Arthur seems to feel similarly, if the way he hums and presses you down into the sheets is any indication, teeth dragging at your lip until you part them, his tongue pressing against yours. You link your arms around his neck, legs sliding apart so he can press between them, a comfortable, warm weight.

"You smell good," he tells you, stubble dragging against your cheek as his hips rock, and you make a soft sound into his ear, feeling his hips pin your cocks together.

"So do you, for once," you tease, and bites your ear, makes you yelp.

"Real funny. Am I gonna have to straighten out that mouth of yours?"

"As if you could."

It's challenge enough for him. Arthur eyes you for a second, before his weight shifts down, pins you down into the mattress until it's just barely hard to breathe. He watches your face the whole time, his hands finding your wrists and gathering them in one big palm, holding them above your head.

He leans down, lips at your ear.

"We'll just see about that, now won't we, boy?" he growls, low and rough and confident in a way that makes you melt, your hands twisting idly in his grip. He squeezes them, as a warning. "Am I gonna have to tie these up?"

You hesitate. He decides for you, tearing a strip off the bedsheets - Mrs. Greeves won't be happy when she notices that, you think distantly, before you realize he's winding the strip of cloth around your wrists and tying it to the spiraling metal headboard. You test the knot as soon as he's done, and it's solid.

You look up at him, eyes wide, and see the heat in his face. The satisfaction at seeing you tied up, helpless for him.

"I'd say I like you like that," he drawls, hands dragging greedily down your body. There's a difference between not using your hands and not being _able to,_ and the constant tension at your wrists, the way you can't touch him if you wanted to - by the time he starts kissing down your body, you're squirming, groaning as he pushes your hips back down against the bed when they rise. "All wrapped up for me, like a present."

You flush hot at that, suddenly unable to look him in the eye for all your fluster. The sweet talk is still absolutely your weakness, and Arthur seems to have picked up on it, teeth scraping over the jut of your hip.

"You're beautiful," he says, low against your skin, and you squirm, looking away from him. "I mean it."

"Arthur," you sigh, as he sits up, urges your legs apart so he can settle between them. "You're so sweet."

"Ain't heard that one before." You go to say more, but he presses a thumb to your lips, shushing you as he leans in. "Easy, now."

His hand wraps around your cock, stroking steadily, and your hips rise into the touch. God, his hands. The way he touches you is firm, but sure, and soon you're fully hard in his hand, hands twisting into fists above you as he takes his sweet time riling you up.

"Arthur, please--"

"I know," he drawls, not speeding up, not stopping. "Told you last time I wanted to hear you, didn't I?"

You groan, throwing your head back. Arthur chuckles, but doesn't stop his ministrations.

"That's nice, but it ain't what I'm looking for. Maybe somethin' a little more like--"

He nudges a slick finger at your hole, and you gasp, finally looking back down. He's got your petroleum tin - must've gotten it out of your pants before the two of you came in here. He works that finger in, slow, and you make a soft, sweet noise as you feel him fill you with another.

"Just like that," he says, husky, his eyes heavy-lidded, and you burn under their gaze. "You wanna be good for me?"

"Y… yes, Arthur," you say, dazed. "Of course."

His fingers curl, finding your sweet spot, and you jolt like you've been hit with electricity. It's a merciless touch, the way he strokes over the spot that makes you shake, teeth gritted, your wrists taut in their bindings.

"Then I wanna see you finish for me," he drawls, low and heated. "And I'm gonna have you after."

You pause, momentarily unsure, but he's not giving you much time to think. His other hand finds your cock again, stroking you with a firm, sure stroke that makes you gasp, hips trembling as you struggle with whether to push up into his hand or down into his fingers.

You're close, already. Can't help it when he's working you so intently, his eyes a dark stormy blue as you gasp and choke out his name, again and again, head thrown back, wrists twisting red against the tie.

When you come, you cry out Arthur's name, eyes fluttering and jaw tight as you muffle a loud, dragging moan through your teeth. It's fucking bliss, the way he works you through it gently, pulling away when you start to whimper with discomfort.

Then he's pulling out your tin again, scooping out more jelly to slather on his cock, flushed a painful looking red from how hard he is. For you. For the things you do to him, for him.

"You gonna take me, sweetheart?" he purrs, and you nod, even though you're not entirely convinced you're not too sensitive. "Good. That's real good."

He pulls your hips up, lines you up, and presses in. You immediately tighten around him, because it feels like - a lot, so much more than usual, and when he brushes that certain spot, you cringe at the spark of white hot sensation. You'd grip his shoulders if you could, cling to him, but the most you can do is sling your legs around his hips and squeeze tight as he presses into you.

You've thrown your head back, gasping by the time he's fully seated. Arthur leans forward, presses his forehead to your shoulder as he puffs. He's breathing easier than usual, you notice, and you are too. God knows you deserve a break after all the shit you've been through.

It feels… _more,_ somehow, than usual. Not bad different, but intense, and when Arthur moves his hips like he normally would, you yelp at the sudden shock of sensation, tightening up.

"Easy," Arthur breathes, slowing his hips. It's a chore for him, you can tell, his grip on you is damn near bruising with the effort it's taking not to move.

"Arthur," you gasp, trying to adjust to him. He starts to move, a gentle roll of his hips that has you gasping from sensitivity, legs linking around his waist. You squeeze your eyes shut as he fucks into you, just once, making you gasp when he pushes past your prostate. "Call me sweetheart again."

"Sweetheart," he purrs, leaning down low over you, his mouth finding your neck. "Darlin'."

" _Arthur--_ "

His voice is like honey, teeth marking up your neck. And when he picks up the pace, thrusts that feel like you can feel them through your entire body, you moan, knees tightening around him, and his name spills out of you like prayer. _Arthur. Arthur. Oh, Arthur._

"Who's my baby?" Arthur says, low and hot, and immediately groans with how tight you immediately are. He laughs, husky, forehead pressing to your shoulder as his thrusts pick up a sharp edge that makes you gasp, every time. "Tell me, Ezra. Who is it?"

"I--" _Ah_ rolls out of you, sharp, too loud. You don't care, throwing your head back. "I am!"

"You're _what?_ "

"I'm your b-baby," you pant, and Arthur _growls,_ dragging your hips up until you're making high, desperate noises on every thrust. " _Arthur--_

"Damn right." He digs his teeth into your neck, soothes the mark a moment after with his tongue. "Don't care what Dutch thinks. You been mine from the beginnin', ain't you?"

No one's ever talked to you like this, and it thrills you in a strange, new way. No one's ever been _possessive_ of you. You don't know that anyone's ever wanted you that badly. Arthur does, and he leaves enough marks to show it, steadily pumping his hips. This time, the build to orgasm isn't immediate and sharp; it's a slow, pleasurable build, just this side of too much sensation.

It's never felt like this before. You love it, moaning, working your hips into his as best you can, and he laughs breathily.

"Good boy," he drawls, bringing his lips back to yours. You kiss him fiercely, your teeth dragging at his lip, nipping at his tongue, just - trying to communicate how much you love this, how incredible he is.

You wish you knew the words to tell him. You kiss him instead and hope he knows.

Arthur pulls out, suddenly, and you make a sharp noise of disappointment. He only grabs you by the hip and rolls you onto your belly, pulls you up onto your knees and pushes his cock into you again. This angle means he can go harder without causing you any discomfort, and he does, sharp snaps of his hips in an increasingly teeth-rattling pace that leave you gasping into the pillow.

"You doin' alright?"

"Oh god _Arthur--_ "

He laughs, breathy, and pushes you down into the bed with a hand on your shoulder.

"Jus' like that. You like how I take care of you, boy?"

"Yes! Arthur--"

It's like you're a record that keeps skipping on his name. He loves it, if the way he tips his weight forward and fucks you right into the mattress is anything to go by. Your cock rubs against the silky sheets, and you're panting soon enough, not entirely sure which sensation is better (or more torturous).

You're loud. You don't care if the Greeves or their servants hear you; there's absolutely nothing they can do about it, or about you and Arthur. No one can do anything to you anymore, not unless you want them to. Maybe that's the real magic of this life, outside the confines of society.

A slap across your ass snaps you out of your reverie, and you yelp, amazed at how much you relish the sting. You lift your ass in a silent plea for more, and Arthur answers with another harsh slap across the other cheek, and then another, and another on the other side, seemingly to even things out. Your ass is on fire by the time he's done, but the sting makes the pleasure sharper, somehow.

God, he's ruined you for anyone else. With that mouth, and those hands, and that cock. Even if you did leave, you'd never find another man to satisfy you quite like Arthur does.

"Arthur, ah, oh god, mm, I love you--"

It slips out of you unbidden, and you both freeze. Immediately, your heart seizes in regret, because you didn't - mean to say that, even if maybe it's true. He didn't need to know. But he's just so sweet like this, so close and so warm, and you're a little drunk, and god, you fucked up.

"What did you say?" he asks, quiet.

"I'm sorry, I--"

"What did you say?" he says again, more insistent. His voice sounds strangely tight.

"I - Arthur." You swallow, forehead thumping against the mattress. "I love - you. I'm sorry."

After a moment of silence, you feel the bonds holding your wrists go loose, and fuck, he's kicking you out, or leaving, or - something, you're stupid. Dutch was right, you fuck everything up.

But Arthur rolls you over again, and kisses you. Folds in against your chest, skin to skin and a tangle of legs, and kisses you firm, tongue sweeping over yours. You groan, wrapping your arms around his neck, dragging your nails lightly down his back to feel him shiver.

"You shouldn't," he finally says, against your lips.

"Shouldn't?"

" _Love_ don't tend to work out for me," he says, avoiding your eyes, "or anybody who thinks to get involved with me."

"I'm already dying, Arthur. How much worse could things get?"

He doesn't seem to have an answer for that, but you think maybe he's feeling guilty again, because he won't look at you. You take him by the face and turn his head back, kissing him. Doing it slow, sweet. Really enjoying him, and letting him enjoy you in turn.

"I love you," you say again, and kiss him, just a peck. You trail those little kisses over his lips, the corner of his mouth, his jaw, his neck. "I do. I'm here for you, until the end."

"Sounds like a bad idea, with the kinda life you left behind."

"I like you more than I ever liked cattle."

He rolls his eyes, and you smile through the next kiss, your teeth dragging lightly at his lip.

"I - you--" he starts, but gives up, huffing. Looks you in the eye again sitting up, pulling you up into his lap. You straddle him, and he slides back into you at a different angle, makes the both of you groan. "I need you. Need you with me."

He can't say it, and that's fine. Just that is enough to satisfy you, and you kiss him, rocking your hips down. He seems to remember what you're doing, and takes you by the hips, lifting you up and pulling you down on his cock, urging you into a pace that steals your breath.

"Let me show you how much," he says, and pushes his cock deep enough to make you cry out, his mouth finding your chest, tongue and teeth dragging over your nipple while his fingers twist and tease the other. You've never felt anything like it, and the sharp, squeaky noises you make are--

"Real cute."

"Shut up--"

He bites, and you jolt against him, whining as he worries your nipple with his teeth.

"Mouthy tonight?" He laughs, low and dark in a way that thrills you, your nails digging into his back as he straightens, bounces you in his lap. "Maybe we don't have to go back right away. Maybe I'll tie you to this bed and use the next couple of days to teach you some manners, boy."

He groans immediately from how tight you get, and you flush hard, amazed that you could be into such talk. Now, if it were Dutch things would be different, but Arthur - the idea of _him_ having complete control over you for a few days is thrilling, and you find yourself wanting it even though you know you shouldn't, moaning against his neck.

"You want that?" he says, husky in your ear. "Want me to break this pretty body in?"

"Oh _god,_ Arthur--"

"Alright," he huffs, stilling his hips long enough to sprawl back on the mattress. He sets his foot on it for support, and before you can do much, he uses that support to bounce you on his cock, hard, your whole weight coming down on him every time. "Let's see if you can handle me, boy."

There's no squirming away - his hands are like iron on your hips, pulling you up and down into his thrusts, and you can't help splaying your hands across his chest, panting as you look down into his heated face.

"You're so deep," you gasp, and he laughs.

"S'at good?"

"It's - new," you murmur, and interrupt yourself with a sharp gasp when you lean forward and his cock grinds into you _just right._ "There!"

"Stay right there, sweetheart," he says, pulling you down against his chest, hands on your ass to guide you into a sharp, tight pace that has your insides knotting up from pleasure, your _ah ah ahs_ in his ear. _God,_ he feels good, and you can feel your orgasm building slow like a wave, your arms thrown around Arthur's neck, nails scratching at his nape.

He drags his teeth along the shell of your ear, follows it with a brush of tongue, and you moan, tucking your face in his neck.

"I love you," you say again, and he presses his lips to your temple, to your forehead, to your nose. "Arthur--"

He kisses you, fierce enough to make up for the words he can't quite say, and wraps his arms around you, pulling you down into his thrusts. Soon enough you're lost in the feeling, moaning in his ear, babbling. _Arthur, please, yes, I love you, I love you, I--_

You do. He's so perfect, so wonderful, and you're afraid to let him go. Afraid he could disappear any moment, could just not come back from any of his runs - that he could slip through your fingers forever, any day now.

You cling to him. Maybe he feels the distress, because he presses his lips to your neck, flutters kisses up your jaw. _That's right, jus' like that. That's my boy._

You want to be good for him. Never want to leave this room, this place, never want to leave his side again.

His hand slips between you to stroke your cock again, and you're rocketing towards orgasm, thighs quivering on either side of him as you work your hips into his thrusts, listening to the sweet sound of him moaning your name.

"'M close," he says, breathless. "Gonna fill you up tonight, sweetheart. Make you remember you're _mine._ "

You only kiss him, moaning against his mouth high and sharp, your hips twitching as he works you steadily towards a mind-blowing orgasm. It feels - god, it feels good, mindlessly so, and you tense against his chest, eyes rolling and shutting as he fucks the good sense out of you.

You come first, a blinding wall of pleasure that hits so hard it steals your breath for a moment - when you remember how to breathe, you suck in a breath for a splitting moan, sharp and high and desperate, a sound you can only describe as _whorish._

It's so fucking _good._

Arthur comes not long after, hips stuttering to a stop against you, pressing in deep. You feel his cock twitch inside you a few times as he pants in your ear, just as dazed as you, his grip on your ass bordering on brutal as he pins your hips against his.

When he's finished, he loosens his grip, and you slip off of him down to the bed. You're still dazed, fucked out and worn through, and can only mumble warm and tired when Arthur pulls you back against his chest.

"You did good," he says, and you make a noise in your throat as he kisses the side of your neck, up into your hairline. "Rest up. Soon as we can, we're goin' again."

"Arthur?" you ask, turning, and catch his rakish smile moments before he presses it to your shoulder.

"Said I was gonna break you in, didn't I?"

You flush, all over, and try to sound slick.

"Don't go making promises you can't keep, old man," you drawl, and gasp when his hand circles around to cup your jaw. "Ah--"

"Might not end up leavin' for a few days, with a mouth like that," he says, and presses his cock to the curve of your ass so you can feel it twitch when you press back into him. "Better straighten up if you don't want to get punished, boy."

You laugh at him, and he grins, rolling over on top of you and pinning you to the mattress. You take his face in your hands, grinning, and make a soft noise when he covers your mouth with his palm, leans down to bite hard at your neck.

It's not the first time he's done it tonight, and it won't hardly be the last.


	13. Chapter 13

Arthur keeps his promise, keeps you there for days. You both enjoy the break as thoroughly as possible, and after enough cajoling, Arthur even relaxes in the opulent Greeves manor.

And at night, when everyone else is asleep, he pins you down into the bed and fucks you senseless, again and again, until you're a boneless well-fucked mess draped in his arms, or over his chest, or in his lap while he sprawls across the bed and gives you all the affection he couldn't spare back at camp, or in the rough wilderness.

You're wearing his shirt one of those occasions, still tingling after the last round. Arthur is sprawled back in the bed, like he usually does to rest after sex, but something is different, maybe even wrong. He won't look at you, slips his hand in his pocket to fidget with something, but keeps acting like nothing is wrong.

"Arthur?" you say, softly, and he looks at you. "Is something the matter?"

"No, 'course not," he says, looking away. "S'just - I got somethin' on my mind."

"Tell me," you say, draped across his lap, and he relents. Pulls something small and gold out of his pocket, holds it out to you.

A ring.

"Wanted you to have this," he says, dropping it in your palm unceremoniously. "Belonged to somebody real important to me, but she didn't want it. So I figured I'd give it to someone else real important to me."

You slip it on your finger. It's a little tight over the knuckle, but comfortable enough once it's on your ring finger. Arthur eyes your hand like he can't believe you actually put it on, and you push him back to the bed with a kiss, startling him into a soft noise against your lips.

After a moment, he wraps his arms around you. Kisses back, tender, and rolls you onto your sides, looks you in the eye.

"Dutch - he's goin' crazy, seems like."

"I know, Arthur. Seems like he's losing control, and with Micah in his ear--"

The name sets Arthur's mouth in a scowl.

"I know. I'm just thinkin' - maybe we should have, I dunno, some kinda… other plan."

"A backup plan?" you say, your voice trying not to sound too light. Too excited. "Away from Dutch?"

"Away from all this," he says, brushing your hair out of your face. "We got a hell of a lot better chance of avoidin' the Pinkertons without Dutch raisin' hell wherever he goes. John can take his family, I can talk Dutch into lettin' the girls go, and we can--"

"We can leave," you say, cupping his cheeks. "We'll stop by my father's estate. Take my share of the ranch in cash, enough to cover our travel. We'll go out West. California?"

"Seen enough of the ocean," he gruffs, and you laugh, sitting up.

"Good point. Somewhere dry. We'll think on it." You beam at him as you get up, heading off to pour yourself a drink from your bottle of whiskey, stolen from the bar downstairs. "This is good for us, you'll see."

"Sure," he says, but he almost sounds… sad, you suppose. Regretful. "Ezra?"

"Yes?"

"You ain't ever gonna leave me, right?" He coughs, his lungs sounding like leaves in fall, and he looks at you genuinely now, a desperate edge to his tone. "After all this?"

You finish your drink, setting the empty glass aside as you pad back to the bed, cupping his cheek. The ring is body-warm against his skin now.

And you kiss him again, slow and sure, feeling him relax against you.

"Until the end," you say against his lips, sitting in his lap. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you against his chest, settling back into the bed with you gathered against him. "Just promise me you'll be careful. That you won't go and get yourself killed for Dutch before we have the chance to leave."

"I won't." He looks at you, steely. "I've given enough to Dutch this lifetime, I'd say."

"I think we've both given him enough. It's time for us to take something for ourselves."

It feels so strange, conspiring against Dutch. A month or two ago, you never would've imagined you'd be doing this with Arthur of all people, but god, you're glad for it. And honestly, just a little bit? You thrill at the idea of stealing Dutch's _favored son_ away from him, even if it seems like that title is going to Micah more and more these days.

"We've probably overstayed our welcome," you tell him, arms draped around his neck casually. "I'll distract Mrs. Greeves and the servants tonight while you rob the place?"

"Sounds good." He wraps his arms around you, pushing you back to the mattress. "But that ain't for a while. We still got time."

"That we do," you say, wrapping your legs around his waist. He slips into you easily, still slick from your last little tryst, and you make a pleasant noise against his neck. "We should enjoy ourselves."

"We're about to."

\---

You ride back into camp feeling ten foot tall and bulletproof, and not even the suspicious looks of the rest of the van der Linde gang can bother you. Dutch comes out of his tent when Micah slithers off to tell him the two of you have returned, cigar in his hand, his eyes narrowed as he looks at the two of you.

"So, you're back." He puffs on his cigar. "Have a nice vacation, you two?"

"It was just a few days working," you say, offering him an ornate jewelry box. He pops it open, examining its contents. "We managed to pick this up."

Dutch sifts through the contents, picks a ring and a watch out for himself. The rest he passes to Micah, who immediately disappears with it to wherever they're hiding the money from you all.

"Good work, boys," Dutch says, still not entirely convinced, and wraps his arm around Arthur's shoulders. "But we have something to discuss that's a few days late, now. Excuse us, son."

They head off to talk, and you go find chores to do, chopping wood and moving hay bales for the horses. It's honest work, and it keeps you busy right up until you see one of the Indians Arthur mentioned in passing talking to him and Dutch, offering them money. Dutch turns it away, sets off with purpose alongside the young man, and you find yourself speeding to catch up to Arthur and Charles.

"What's happening?"

"The Army has stolen the reservation's horses," Charles says, low. "Eagle Flies wants revenge, but we think it's unwise."

"Dutch is a damn fool," Arthur gruffs, and you all come to your horses. "If we don't go along, it's gonna be a bloodbath."

Dutch finally turns, noticing you.

"Oh, no. You're staying here and watching for Pinkertons, son."

"But--"

"I'm not hearing argument, am I?" Dutch drawls, and you fall silent, stepping back. "Good. Stay here and protect the women. Wait for us."

"Yes, Dutch."

Arthur gives you one last look before turning his horse around, following after Dutch. You watch the lot of them go, ignoring the steady press of boots behind you until you can't anymore. You turn to look at Micah, hands in his belt, hip cocked as he looks you over.

"So, Deadeye. Looks like it's just the two of us. Dutch's favored sons."

"I wouldn't say that," you drawl, moving to walk past him. "I feel less and less _favored_ by the day. Excuse me."

You're not expecting him to touch you. He reaches out and grabs you by the wrist, twisting your hand up to examine the ring.

"What's this?"

You yank free, making a fist to hide the ring.

"It's a little bit of jewelry from our last heist. What's it to you, Bell?"

"That's funny. Because I was damn sure I saw that exact same ring in Morgan's hand when he got all hang-dog sad over that letter."

That's - from a letter? The confusion must be clear on your face, because Micah laughs, stepping closer. He runs his open hand up the outside of your arm, gripping you at your elbow when you try to pull away.

"Easy, Deadeye. Wouldn't want to--" He fakes coughing, _hack hack--_ "Wear yourself out."

"What do you think you're doing?"

"I know what you are," Micah sneers, and you blanche, too stunned to stop him from pulling closer. "I know what you do with Dutch and Arthur when you think nobody can hear you. But I can. _I_ know. Didn't realize Morgan was into queers."

You realize he says nothing about Dutch, and scoff.

"Charming. Where are you going with this?"

"I think if you're passing it around to everyone else, you should give the guy next in line a taste," he drawls, and you recoil, grimacing.

"Absolutely not."

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Fairchild. Either you lie down for me like a good little whore or else--"

"Or else you'll kill me?" You scoff again, stepping back towards camp. "Honestly, do you think I really care at this point? I'm sick."

"Maybe not. But I know you care about Morgan."

You look at him sharply, and he grins. Steps closer, pulls you by your wrist into the treeline, out of sight of camp.

"That's what I thought. Next firefight we get into, all's it takes is one stray bullet and he's out of the game. You understand me, Deadeye?"

You pause, silent as the grave, because he's right. Dutch won't protect Arthur anymore, might not even care if Micah did kill him. He could follow him out to piss or hunt or ride out for Dutch one day and come back alone, and there's nothing you could really do about it.

He leans in, a hand groping you through your pants. You don't even realize you've pulled your gun until a heartbeat later, when you come back to yourself with it jammed up under Micah's chin, his hands coming up in mock surrender.

" _Easy,_ cowboy," he drawls, and you push him with the gun until he takes a few paces back. You level the gun between his eyes, and he knows better than to test your aim. "Guess I'll take that as a no?"

"Piss off, Micah." You wave the gun at him. "You're awfully fortunate I won't tell Arthur about this. He'd kill you."

"You've got an _awful_ lot of faith in that half-dead cowpoke, don't you?" He laughs, thin and insincere, already stepping back towards the edge of camp. "I'll remember this, _Fairchild._ Maybe I'll pay someone in the family a visit. Let 'em know how you're getting on these days."

He fakes a cough into his fist, and you glare at him as he steps back, eventually turning with a merry little whistle and wandering back into camp.

You watch him go. And you don't follow until he's long gone.

\---

You don't tell Arthur about Micah, once he and Charles come back in. Late. You've volunteered for guard in the meantime, finding the distance of the scout camp from Micah amenable; it's nearly dawn by the time Arthur rides in, hours after Charles, and you call out to him.

"Arthur!"

"Ezra," he says, but it seems like - he seems troubled, somehow, as he trots up to the scout camp. "Where's Dutch?"

"He came back a few hours ago," you say, suddenly uncertain. "Is there something wrong?"

"Nah, it's--"

He trails off with a sigh, head shaking. "This business with the Army - it ain't good."

"He's picking a fight with the _Army?_ " Your voice sounds faint. "They'll kill us all."

"I know."

A moment of uncertain silence. He lingers, like he wants to say something else, but neither of you can really risk him lingering.

"Sleep well, Arthur," you tell him instead, voice soft, and he nods. Rides his horse further on into camp. And for a few hours at the very least, things are peaceful. Quiet.

You're embarrassed to have to be woken up by a hand on your shoulder, shaking you. You whirl around, gun clutched to your chest to see--

"Dutch," you say, breathless, and his mouth pulls into a wry line.

"Getting your beauty sleep in?"

You look up blearily. It's morning, first light turning the skies from black to a ruddy merlot, and your joints creak in protest as you stand, facing him.

"Ain't much of a guard, are you, son?" Dutch huffs, waving someone over. "Bill! You're on guard duty. Put the bottle down and get over here."

You're pretty sure you hear a gruff _aw hell, Dutch_ as Bill shuffles out of his drunken haze by the fire, but you hardly hear him. You stand, avoiding his eyes, and stop short when he leans down to speak in your ear.

"You and I got a ride to take." A breath. "Get your horse."


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who's getting back into writing and finishing up old stories uwu
> 
> also fisting/large insertions in this one, watch out

You're expecting another fuck out in the woods. So when he takes you into town, boldly heedless of the fact that the two of you took part in Cornwall's assassination in broad daylight just a week or so ago, you're a little dumbfounded. He has the sense, at least, to pick one of the shittier saloons in Saint Denis, where at first glance it seems like everybody else in the dingy, smoky room must be just as wanted as you. It's a grim crowd.

Dutch swaggers his way to the bar, orders you both a shot of whiskey. You down yours immediately and watch Dutch match you, knocking his knuckles on the bar to signal for more. He eyes you the whole time, you notice out of the corner of your eye, but you never explicitly give off that you know he's looking at you.

"What do you need, Dutch?" you drawl around the lip of another shot.

"We haven't gone out together in a while," he says, finishing the second shot. You do as well. "And we could both use the fresh air, couldn't we? You seem raring to go, lately."

"Do I?" You _hmph,_ not looking over at him just yet. "Any opportunity to get away from Micah is good enough for me."

"Funny you should mention him, when all you ever seem to have eyes for these days is Arthur."

You swallow your mouthful of whiskey, carefully. Try not to let on to Dutch that your blood pressure just spiked through the roof.

"Should we be talking about this now?" Your voice sounds thin, suddenly. "Here?"

"A wise man once said that there is no better time than the present," Dutch drawls, but you can feel his sidelong stare. "Besides, the two of you have been anything but _subtle._ Why start now?"

He finishes his shot, passes a hand over the small of your back as he goes by, heads upstairs. You know damn well he wants you to follow in a few moments - nobody is stopping him, had he already rented the room? - but all you can do is look longingly at the front door. You could run, if you wanted to. If you had the guts. Nobody is stopping you.

But you won't. You never do.

Your steps feel leaden as you make your way up the stairs, grip tight on the banister. There's only one room with the door still open, and you step inside, shutting it quietly behind you. Dutch is at the window, the smell of cigar smoke light on the air.

He knows you're here, but he won't look at you. Won't even acknowledge you. Your voice sounds weak when you call out to him.

"Dutch."

"You actually came up." He laughs, faint. Turns to look at you, dark eyes burning hot. "Wasn't sure you had the nerve."

"Well," you say, as he steps forward, "here I am--"

He crushes his smoky mouth against yours, pushing until your back hits the wall, and the pressure of your hands against his chest is just cursory at this point. You fit your hands in his shirt immediately, the way you know he wants - the way he _expects_ you to, like you're checking off a list for how to fuck Dutch and come out alive.

He makes a low noise in his throat. You think it's arousal at first, think it's almost sweet the way he peels your hand off his chest and wraps his hand around yours. Until he pinches your ring finger, the dull gold band gleaming low in the light.

"What's this?"

You almost, almost lie your way out of it. Then he tips your chin up to make you look at him and _it's just something I found on the last run_ dissolves into halting, increasingly hard-to-understand mumbling in his dark, knowing eyes.

"You didn't add this to the take." You stare at him for a long moment, uncomprehending, before he sees fit to add onto that. "This is from your last run with Arthur, wasn't it?"

Fucking Micah. How much did he say?

Dutch doesn't say anything more just yet. Brings that hand to his lips like you're his lady in waiting, eyes burning into you as he brushes his lips over your knuckles, pressing a kiss to the wedding ring.

"Take a bath with me," he says, and he isn't asking.

He's supposed to lash out. Supposed to hurt you, and demand your loyalty, that's what he _does._ But now he's leading you dumbly along back out of your room and down the hall, his grip on your wrist like a father leading a child towards punishment.

The bath is already waiting. How much planning went into this little sojourn for you two, and how didn't you notice it earlier?

Arthur had seemed almost insecure in a proper bath. Meek, almost. Dutch continues to be the polar opposite, strolling into the room already stripping. You watch his vest and shirt flutter to the ground, studying the broad lines of his back. You get to see him undressed so rarely.

You realize after a moment that he's stopped, staring at you with a brow raised. You take the cue to start on your own clothes, albeit slower, more fidgety.

"Having trouble, son?" Dutch says immediately behind you, and you hadn't realized you'd turned away to undress. He reaches around you to start undoing your buttons with his steadier, broader hands, his chin in your shoulder as his hands drift down and your stomach sinks.

The marks. Arthur's marks, all over you still. A quiet terror builds in you as he surveys the state of your body, silent as the grave as your shirt flutters open and he slides it off your shoulders. He pushes his weight forward, chest against yours to bully you forward until you're gripping the edge of the tub, trembling under his touch.

"Something wrong?" he says in your ear, low, hooking his thumbs in the waist of your pants and tugging them down. You can feel his skin against yours, you know he can feel you shivering up against him. "Are you this nervous around Arthur, I wonder?"

He can't possibly know where you were, that you had a bath together then. So how can he make it feel like he can see right through you? _How?_

He shushes against your nape, low and just this side of sweet, urging you out of your clothes and into the tub. You feel small in the (admittedly lovely, hot) water as Dutch undresses and slides in opposite you, groaning low and satisfied, dipping his head under the water to slick the wet strands back out of his face. You can't help but touch him when you're sharing a tub like this, but it's just--

It's not the same as Arthur. You feel wound tight in this tub with him, not relaxed, your eyes squeezed shut as you ignore the way he's looking over your body.

His leg brushes yours, and you jump halfway out of the tub, it feels like. You realize soon that it's not his leg, but his hand, pushing your leg out of the way so he can stretch out properly into your space. Your legs tangle with his, tense. He seems all but oblivious.

In fact, it seems like he's entirely _too_ at home here for someone so in love living out on the land. Or maybe he's just in love with the idea of it.

You just get comfortable when you feel a shift in the water, and suddenly you're being reeled across the tub and into Dutch's chest. Far from the sultry, fun affair it had been with Arthur, you're stiff as a board now, and you're certain he must feel the pounding of your heart through where you're pressed skin to skin.

Everywhere, essentially. Chest to chest, his thigh slipping casually between yours.

"I love to see my boys so close," Dutch says, in that lofty tone where you immediately know he's bullshitting, his fingers carding through your slick hair. "But I can't help but wonder where your loyalties lie these days. What with the wedding ring and all."

"If we weren't with you, we wouldn't still be _with_ you," you reply, but it sounds too tense to be convincing, moreso as he runs his ringed knuckles over your cheek and you tense, expectant. Always expecting more pain from him. "Dutch--"

"Calm down," he rumbles, and with your ear against his chest like this, you hear every syllable. Slow, husky. Almost a purr, and you can almost, almost try to relax against him. "You think I came here to hurt you?"

You don't answer. He presses his lips to your crown, but it's not a kiss.

"Let me rephrase that, son. You think you'd _still be here_ if I came plannin' to kill you, Ezra?"

It's supposed to be soothing, you think, but it has the dead opposite effect. Because you don't know, you don't know with him, he's just - you never know--

You sit up, carefully disentangling yourself from his limbs, and nervously wet the washcloth. Dutch raises a brow until he sees you start to soap it up, and then he watches as you start to soap up your neck.

"Forgetting something, son?"

He spreads his arms, clearly waiting, and you turn the washcloth on him instead, sweeping away the sand and sweat and blood. In fact, you purposefully lather the rag up _better_ once you swipe it over his skin, and his eyes crinkle in quiet insult. Like you think he's so dirty he needs _more soap._

Washing Arthur was a distinct pleasure. Washing Dutch feels more like scrubbing the feet of Old Testament God himself.

You're sweeping the wet washcloth over his neck and chest again when he takes you by the wrist, shifting forward in the tub until he can manhandle you into facing away from him. He tugs the washcloth out of your stiff fingers and dips it again, his hand smoothing down your back as he sweeps the rag up your side. Like soothing an animal in a trap.

"Awful tense for a bath," Dutch hums in your ear, and then you catch your lip with your teeth when you feel his lips pressing a trail of soft kisses down your neck.

His teeth catch at your skin, and the groan you let out is strangled, through your teeth. It's not what he wanted, apparently, because he pulls off after a moment, fingers finding a particularly dark bruise from Arthur and pressing in until it hurts.

"Or am I just not who you _want_ anymore?"

There's the bitterness. The _jealousy._ Arthur was right, you realize, and now this isn't just a nervous bath, this is--

You move to stand, but Dutch has his arm casually looped around your throat now, elbow snug at your windpipe. Not tight enough to choke, but just enough for you to feel Dutch's strength, which hasn't subsided at all during yours and Arthur's consumption, and now a man who you know is only moderately strong feels like he's made of solid steel.

You're weak. You're wasting. And Dutch is pushing you forward with his chest to your back, crowding you against the edge of the tub and hauling you up onto your knees.

"Dutch--"

"Thing is, _son,_ " Dutch continues, like you never even spoke, "Everything Arthur knows is what _I_ taught him - everything. You think I haven't had him, _hah,_ a hundred times or more, just like this--"

"I don't want - to hear that," you snap, and Dutch laughs, a nasty little chuckle, and forces a soapy finger in your ass. You jump, tense, but--

Dutch rumbles deep in his chest, a sound like dark thunder in your ears.

"Loose like a smalltown whore," Dutch says, but his tone is - not entirely scornful like it wants to be. The venom is clouded, almost absentminded as he slips another finger into you, scissors them in a way that doesn't hurt like it used to. Your face burns hot into the side of the tub as he… does something. It's not fucking you on his fingers, more like he's trying to clean you. "Christ, son. All this for _Arthur,_ but God forbid _I_ ask for a bath. The man that took you in, gave you a _home--_ "

"God, do you ever _shut up?_ "

Dutch looks, for just an instant, like you may as well have slapped him. Nobody talks to Dutch van der Linde like that, but God, God, you're already dying, so what's it matter to die a little faster if it means taking this holier than thou _dickhead_ down a notch or two?

You hear the water slosh before you feel his fist tangling in your hair, dragging you out of the tub slipping and stumbling. You twist your head, tear a chunk loose, and then you're bolting for the window in the adjoining bedroom.

Now, you never really expected to _get away from him_ through that window, but it's awfully satisfying just to embarrass Dutch, who has to drag a cursing, wet, naked man back through a broken window on a busy street, right at prime saloon hours. And that makes it more than worth it.

Dutch hurls you onto the floor, immediately dropping a knee in the small of your back to keep you from squirming away. You're howling, cursing at him, both of you naked and squirming on the dirty floor as Dutch reaches for his discarded pile of clothes.

The belt goes around your wrists once he manages to wrench them behind your back.

"Give me - your goddamn _hands--_ "

Frantic knocking at the door. Both you and Dutch freeze, but he goes back into motion before you can think to do much, the barrel of his gun kissing your temple.

"You make one _god damn_ sound," he warns, breathless, before pulling away to struggle into his pants. " _One sound._ "

Do it and, in this state, you're sure he'll kill you for real. He kicks you behind the bed, out of the line of sight of the door, and strolls over to answer. You peek out beneath the bed to see a fat little saloon owner, ruddy-faced and frantic, scolding Dutch about _property damage_ and _commotion_ and _why shouldn't I just call the law and--_

"Here," Dutch interrupts, gruff, and shoves a handful of bills into the man's sweaty palm. "For the damage and the pianist."

"For the pianist?"

Even a month ago, maybe, Dutch could have talked a podgy little hick like this into buying some magic beans. Bon vivant, gentleman, _man of culture_ that he tried so hard to be. But now everyone can see him fraying at the edges, even this man, whose eyes dart nervously between Dutch and the open stairway behind him, like he's looking for an escape.

Dutch leans in, flashes a smile that's all teeth.

"Get him playing _louder,_ " he says, already in the process of shutting the door, "and let us handle our business with some _privacy._ Thank you very much."

Slam. Click. Once he's done with the lock, Dutch turns back to see you sitting up against the side of the bed, coughing wetly, looking at him like he's the least interesting thing in the world. He stalks over to you, but it doesn't have the feline grace it used to, none of his movements do - he's clipped when he makes his way to you, sharp about pulling you up onto the bed by your hair and shoving you face first into the sheets.

" _Arthur._ What, may I ask, is it that has you so enamored with him?" He unbelts your wrists, but only long enough to force them up and tie them against the headboard. Even if you felt like fighting, he's stronger than you by far these days. "Because it sure as hell ain't his technique."

"Does it really bother you, Dutch?" you sneer over your shoulder as he forces your hips up, digs through his pocket. Isn't this familiar? "Can't stand not being the center of everyone's universe?"

"I _made_ you what you _are._ You owe everything to _me,_ " he spits, but seems to breathe, to rein himself in. "But that's not why I brought you out here, son."

You're about to snarl something back at him, but gag around a mouthful of cloth instead. His pocket square, you realize soon enough, and you bite down on his fingers through the material before he can snatch them away in time, cursing. He grabs you by the head and shoves your face down again, all his weight bearing down on you as he speaks, low and hot in your ear.

"I realize now I've never taken any _special time_ out for the two of us. No wonder you've gone and gotten yourself so attached to Arthur." He catches the shell of your ear between his teeth, tugs until he hears you groan. "You just don't know any better yet."

You're so tired of him. So tired of every new horror he visits on you, of the manipulation, of the _lies._ So you're mentally squaring yourself up for another fucking, at least at first. Until you realize he's just stroking a hand up and down your spine, over your hips, your stomach, thumbs brushing over your nipples from time to time.

It's hard to stay tense for too long. Your muscles start to ache from the tension, and then loosen, relaxing into the sheets as Dutch towels you off with your own dry clothes like the asshole he is. God, he's just so awful in every way imaginable, even the little ones.

You're ignoring him now, head down in the sheets as you try to relax. _Try_ being the key phrase here, because he won't stop touching you, rough hands drifting over your skin in annoyingly soothing patterns. He leans down, smelling of soap and skin as he settles behind you, against you, the soft rasp of his facial hair down your neck, your shoulders, your - spine?

When he spreads you open, you have the sense to jolt against the belt around your wrists. But it doesn't do anything to change his hot breath against sensitive skin, and then he - _oh--_

You squeal in surprise at the first drag of his tongue over your hole. Partially because it's unexpected, and partially because it's prim, neatly dressed, devastatingly well-mannered Dutch van der Linde and he's _licking_ you and--

He does it again, swirls his tongue around your sensitive hole, and you whimper into his pocket square. You didn't even realize this was an option, with you and Arthur and all your rough, inarticulate, admittedly minimal experience - but it feels completely different than fingers or a cock.

You squirm back against his mouth despite yourself, and when he laughs, you feel his goatee scratch against oversensitive skin.

"Oh, _son._ " It's warm and full and poisonous as he dents your skin with his fingers, nails pressing in. "If I'd known you needed me this _desperately,_ I would've taught you myself. Just like I taught Arthur."

Arthur, young and fully alive and sweating and screaming in Dutch's sheets, you can practically see it. Can only imagine what Arthur's low, deep groans must turn into when he's the one getting his brains fucked out. And you hate the way it makes your cock twitch in Dutch's free hand, hardening under his callused touch as he huffs a warm sound and continues his work on you.

There's no squirming away when he's got you this tight, and now _Christ,_ he's pushing his tongue into you, and you have absolutely no idea why that knowledge does something to you but it _does._ Maybe it's the fact that this is the most effort Dutch has ever put into turning _you_ on, and fuck, that's--

He sucks at you, swirls his tongue, and your voice cracks on a high moan behind the gag. Downstairs the piano picks up again, some jaunty tune that must be out of place and earsplitting downstairs, but hides your moaning well as it picks up. You're trying not to get loud anyway, don't want to give Dutch the satisfaction, but it's impossible not to tremble when he pulls back and blows a hot breath over your slick, sensitive flesh.

A throaty grunt from behind you as Dutch surveys his work. It sounds like approval, probably.

Dutch is off the bed now, gives you a vicious swat across the ass as he crosses to close the fluttering curtains again. You jolt with a squeal and turn your head to watch him light up a cigar, puffing on it a few times as he idly checks the street. Passes around out of view, cock hard in his trousers, but except for the flush on his skin you wouldn't even know what he's been doing.

You grunt through the gag, a lame attempt at _where are you going?_ You hear a strike, smell the wisp of charcoal from a match - and then he's back, just as you're trying to rise up and get a look around, a hand settled on the small of your back to push you back down on your belly.

"Down, son."

Not boy anymore. _Son,_ he croons, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to your nape, but you see he's got something. There's light, more than there should be, but it's dim. Brighter than a match.

The first splash of hot candlewax down the small of your back answers your question, and thank fuck the pianoman is playing his fingers to the bone downstairs, because your cry doesn't sound anywhere near pained enough. It's just a brief flash of heat and pain, but it doesn't ache like a proper burn afterwards.

Dutch's laughter is like honeyed poison.

"Well, are we a fan?" He doesn't wait for a garbled attempt at an answer, tipping the candle again and pouring another hot stream down your spine. You can muffle yourself into the gag, but you can't stop the way your body jumps at every new drip, the way your fists tighten in the scratchy sheets. He keeps the timing random, too, so you're too busy anticipating more wax to notice him reaching underneath you again. "Oh- _hoh,_ seems like we are."

You're hard to the point of aching. He rubs his thumb just a little too hard over the head of your cock, then pulls his hand up to show the wetness there. He presses it to your lips and your mouth drops open to take it in, jaw slack in his grip. He makes sure to wipe your precome on your tongue.

"Wetter than the farmer's daughter." Dutch chuckles, and even the glare you send back is halfhearted. It's hard to think when you're this mindlessly aroused for _this long,_ you've never had to wait for it like this. You can barely see him back there when you turn your head like this, and vaguely wonder why he's taking off his rings. He never takes off his rings. "Now, let's get started."

_Started?_

You don't have the time to wonder about it. He has absolutely no trouble sliding two slick fingers into you (when did he do that? why weren't you paying attention?) - and this isn't idle work to get you just stretched enough for his dick. There's a rhythm to the way his fingers work in and out of you now, slow at first to warm you up to the sensation, then firmer, more demanding.

You stopped trying to be quiet some time ago, but when he curls his fingers inside of you to find that one particular spot and _press,_ your knees collapse underneath you. A high, desperate noise slips through the gag and drags on the vowels as Dutch _massages_ that spot, sharp pangs of pleasure that drown out all other thought.

You feel fuller, after a moment. Your sluggish mind catches up once he's already fit three fingers in you fully and started again, and fuck, the depth, the stretch, the way he _curls_ them--

You want to come, desperately. Could, if you could get your hands on your dick. Maybe Dutch is expecting that train of thought, or maybe he can just plain read minds these days, because he laughs, short and throaty.

"Do you need something, son?"

Your answer is sobbed through a gag, but you're sure he still hears you. Still understands. Still doesn't care, and your head jerks up sharply when he crowds a fourth finger at your hole and starts pressing in. _That's_ a stretch. Fuck, he's got big hands, why is he putting so many of his fingers into you, he's--

Your cry isn't entirely pleasured when he forces his pinky in, but he shushes you like a child, pumping most of his hand into your abused ass.

"Loosen up now, Ezra," Dutch drawls, and you choke a noise out in response. He's nearly purring. "My _good boy._ Beautiful boy. I didn't take my rings off so you could take _half_ my fist."

Why didn't you notice earlier that he's slick up to his fucking wrist? Were you that distracted, that easily? Didn't you know better with Dutch?

You immediately snap your head around, shaking your head tightly, but Dutch pushes in another half inch and your head drops, gag soggy in your mouth. He can't possibly - he won't _fit._ Is something wrong with his dick all of a sudden? You try to rise again and his hand comes down on the back of your neck, pinning you like an animal.

"Now, now, don't panic. It goes back to normal, give or take a week," Dutch says, tone warm and full as he pumps you with his fingers, forcing your tense body to loosen up around the intrusion. "Arthur's always did."

Arthur. For some odd reason, you think back to Guarma, turning to Arthur and saying _so, about you and Dutch--_

 _I don't want to talk about that,_ he'd replied, and maybe now you sort of have an idea why. Christ, Dutch.

 _Christ, don't,_ you choke out into the gag, and Dutch leans forward to nip the shell of your ear, tucking his thumb in and gradually working the rest of his hand into you.

You've never been stretched so full, felt so _heavy._ Dutch sits back and audibly drags on his cigar while he wears you like a fucking wristwatch, drooling, trembling hard around him. You'd like to stay like that, deathly still.

Only, Dutch has other ideas, unfolding two of his knuckles and pressing hard against your prostate. Not moving, not _fucking,_ nothing, just - steady pressure, enough to edge the ache with a thin, persistent thread of pleasure.

The hand moves from your nape to pull your face out of the sheets. Dutch twists your head around until he can get a good look at you, wet faced and sloppy, see the effort it takes you to focus your eyes on his and understand what he's saying.

"So good for me, son."

Some dumb, animal hindbrain part of you that's in control now is basking in all the sweet words, even as he curls his hand into a fist inside you. You can feel every little muscle contraction, every twitch of his fingers as the ridge of his knuckles drags over your prostate, and--

You don't come. He still isn't touching your dick, throbbing and tender red against the sheets, but the sheer width of his fist and its positioning drives you impossibly close, leaking into the sheets as Dutch pulls out a half inch, presses back in. Sets a steady, short rhythm of motion into you that drags a hitched, desperate moan out of you on every flex of his hand.

"I'm sorry," he drawls, "I didn't quite catch that. What did you say again?"

He picks up the pace, and your nails catch and tear at the sheets, every possible thought forced out of your mind except Dutch, loosening you up enough now that his fist can properly slide in and out of you. He folds his fingers in and pulls his hand out slow, and the slick wet noise it makes when it pops out of you, _fuck._ Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You feel so empty now. You're limp in his hands as he rolls you onto your back, urges your leg up onto his shoulder. You turn your face into your arm as he presses his fist back into you, and the angle is harder like this, less comfortable as he starts up that steady pace all over again. Working you looser, bit by grueling bit, and once he realizes you're trying to hide from him, he angles his fist into your prostate and has you howling into the gag.

You make the mistake of opening your eyes, next.

Dutch is the messiest you've ever seen him since Guarma, dark hair drying and wild, flushed as deep red all over as you are. His chest heaves on his breaths, the cigar is just a stub he's nearly chewed in half, a sheen of sweat lighting up all the muscles you and Arthur (well, mostly Arthur) used to have. And then you look down and see yourself stretched around his fist as he works it in and out of you, and how fucking _hard_ you are, leaking against your belly.

You tighten around his fist, or try to, and throw your head back, and it seems that's all that he really wanted, was for you to _look_ at what he's doing to you at least once tonight. He turns his head and spits his cigar stub out, then leans down, bracing himself against the headboard so he can _fuck_ you on his fist.

You're not even sure the gag, the piano, and the roaring crowd downstairs were enough to drown you out once he gets started in earnest. To feel something that big inside you was one thing, but for him to _fuck_ you with it, always sure to drag his knuckles over the spot that makes you yelp and your cock twitch, it's--

It's so much. Your throat is sore from screaming. You could come with the slightest touch, it feels like, and you can't rut your cock against the sheets like this. Dutch's mouth found your skin at some point, leaving bites and bruises and suck-marks across your neck and chest - always bigger, always darker than Arthur's. He comes away licking blood off his lips, pulling your gag loose with his free hand. Spits in your mouth.

You're babbling, started as soon as he took the gag out. It's mostly unintelligible noise, but Dutch's name is there, again and again, urgent, pleading. None of it seems to faze him as he leans down, his voice hot.

"Tell me what you want, son."

Maybe you do. It's hard to keep track of what you say and don't say when you're this desperately close, but you end up saying _something_ that gets him to run a fingertip from the base of your cock to the tip, rubbing just under the head.

"Come," he orders, twisting his hand inside you and grinding against your prostate, and it's all you need.

You hate that you've never come this hard. Hate that it had to be Dutch. Hate, on some level besides the overwhelming crash of pleasure, your shriek (cut off right away by Dutch's hand on your throat, turned into an eye-rolling, throaty whimpering) as you paint your belly, wrists twisting raw against the leather of his belt. And you hate that he keeps his fist in you long enough to let you ride out your shivering, twitchy, full-body orgasm around him. Maybe just so he can see you jolt and whimper from overstimulation when he pulls it out, standing up.

He walks off somewhere. You hear the water in the still half-full tub sloshing from the next room, spilled out boneless across the sheets still. And you're still there when he comes back with his pants off, unspooling the leather around your wrists.

"I have so much more to give you, Ezra," Dutch says, his voice hoarse with need. "So much more to teach you than he _ever_ will, understand?"

You mumble something as he pulls you onto the floor, your knees watery as he guides his cock in your mouth. Isn't in the mood to broach arguments from you tonight, not that you can really put your thoughts together coherently right now, and you suck him as best you know how because you know it's the only way to get him to let you rest.

He was as desperate as you, it seems, because the moment your warm mouth slips around him, he groans through his teeth like he's been shot. His hips jump up into your mouth before he can force himself flat-footed in his sitting position, fingers tight in your hair to urge you up and down on him.

"My sweet boy," Dutch purrs for what feels like the millionth time, and he's really laying it on thick, isn't he? Really sounding like he _means_ it. Trying to, anyway. "Ezra, Christ--"

You let him push his dick down your throat until you gag, then gives you a moment to breathe, then repeats the process. Until he doesn't even pull out anymore, until he's _fucking your throat_ and you're clinging uselessly to his legs, trying not to die.

When he comes with a tight noise, soft and strangled pleasure, he does it down your throat. You swallow instinctively around him until he pulls out, wiping his wet cock across your cheek.

He pulls you up into the bed against him. You feel more like his ragdoll than his lover, and you have to wonder how much of this desperation of his has to do with Molly's absence. No Arthur waiting hand and foot on him, no John, nothing but fucking _Micah._

"Do you fuck Micah?" you ask, hoarse, and Dutch actually turns to regard you fully, eyes sharp. "Dutch--"

"No," Dutch says, probably lies, his tone hard. "I have--"

Standards.

"...Certain tastes," he says instead, folding you up against his side. It's the first time he's ever done more to you afterwards than throw you out or ignore you, and it can't help but ring hollow as he reaches on the nightstand for a cigar. Like it was placed there beforehand, like he knew exactly how he wanted this scene to play out and you were just the stage decorations. "Not that I thought the intimate details of who I fuck was of any interest to you."

He lights the cigar. Your nose scrunches at the smell of smoke when he breathes his words at you.

"All you need to worry about is getting some rest, son," he says, squeezing you tighter against him. His smoky words are against your hairline now, still damp with sweat. "You need to conserve your strength."

"I'm fine," you start to argue, thinly, but struggling against his grip isn't really an option when you're in this state. Dutch only links that arm around you tighter, pulling you against his chest. "I have to get back--"

"Get back? Whatever for?" Dutch drawls, his stare piercing. "Something on your mind?"

Arthur. Sick and coughing in camp, stranded amongst wolves. Dutch here and now, though, waiting to see if his attempt at _loving_ or _scaring_ you back into line (you can never tell the difference with him) was worth the effort.

If you're still worth the effort.

"Nothing, Dutch," you say, deadpan, and he gives your shoulder a squeeze.

"Good boy. Rest."

You really wish it was harder to do that. But as soon as you start to listen to the steady rhythm of his breaths, the exhaustion takes hold, and it doesn't let go.

\---

It's dark when Dutch comes back into the room. You hadn't realized he'd left, and hadn't even realized you'd fallen asleep with him, but he comes in smelling like bathtub booze and the cheap lilac of whore's perfume, pawing at your half-asleep form in the pooling sheets. You sit up and immediately regret it, a sharp pang of soreness - pain? - lancing through you when you sit up.

How long were you out? How long has Arthur sat there and worried where the hell the two of you got off to?

"Dutch," you start, voice weak, but his _shhhhh_ is slurred as he piles into bed beside you. "Dutch--"

"Again," he breathes, his eyes dark. He's drunk. "Just - one more time, son, before we go. Just one more time."

"One more?"

"Just one, darlin'," Dutch drawls, already rolling you over onto your stomach, and you hate how much he's trying to sound like Arthur. God, he's drunk. "Think the husband would mind?"

"As if you care what Arthur thinks anymore," you snap, and Dutch's hollow laugh as he drags his half-hard dick against your ass is all the answer you really need.

" _Arthur_ is _dying._ "

Something tightens in your chest. Arthur is dying. You're dying. You don't really care about you dying so much, but dying with Dutch? Heaven for-fucking-fend.

Dutch is all wet eyes and tobacco-stained teeth in this darkness, as you look over your shoulder. But you can see the oil-slick smile.

"You need to think about your future, son," Dutch says, lining his cock up. It slides in entirely too easily, and it isn't exactly comfortable for you, but since when has Dutch van der Linde _ever_ given a fuck about what's comfortable for you? " _We_ still have a future."

A future, maybe. But the shitty mattress squeaks underneath your combined weight and any thought of a _future_ is dragged right back to this dark, dirty little room.

Dutch rolls off when he's done, shoves his clothes back into order, and immediately heads for the door again.

"That's good, son," echoes in your head in the long silent moments after he's gone again, ruffling your hair like petting a stray dog. "That's real good. I'll see you in the morning."

No. He won't.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up on the end! In the spirit of the world sucking ass right now, I'm writing different endings so you can pick if you want to be miserable or need a dose of happy ending right now. Feel free to say which ending y'all want first (Dutch or Arthur, take a wild guess which one is the bad one) and I'll get on it UwU

Dutch is _working,_ he says. Digging up leads. Who gives a shit what he thinks he's doing anymore, honestly, so you smile and nod at him when he stumbles back in blackout drunk and let him pass out in his own indignity.

You take your clothes, and you take the quickest rinse imaginable to get the shame off of you, and then you're limping downstairs and gingerly making your way outside in the early hours of the morning. It's still dark.

And you take Dutch's money while he's good and unconscious, for good measure. Sure, the Count is still tied up out front, but let's see him pay for that room and no doubt mounting bar tab without _your_ hard-earned money to throw around.

Merlin is restless outside, hungry. You wince as you lift yourself into an almost unbearably hard saddle, trying too hard not to think about the evening's humiliation. Or Dutch's last grasp at control he knows he's losing, maybe? God knows what he'll do when he sobers up and realizes you're liable to tell Arthur everything.

Liable to. You won't, not while Dutch is within Arthur's grasp, but Dutch doesn't like loose ends, and you get the feeling he doesn't really like you anymore either. Maybe he never did. Maybe by the time you arrived, the ghost of what he and everyone in the gang used to be was long gone.

Except for just a few. The girls, and Grimshaw, and Pearson, John and his little family. Charles. The Reverend, who you haven't seen and don't expect to ever see again. That fellow with the amazing mustache.

And Arthur. Reliable until the end.

You take Merlin a ways in the opposite direction of Beaver Hollow first, miles and miles, then wade into the treeline until the main road disappears behind you. Dawn breaks, dyeing the sky pinkish blue as you strip and wade into the water. Even still midnight cold, you prefer it by far to that tub with Dutch. Here you can relax, and scrub off his touch, survey the damage. You and Arthur can go weeks without an _encounter_ and you'll hopefully be long gone before you have to tell him the truth.

God, you're sore. But you read somewhere that cold waters do a body good, and your wheezing isn't too terrible as you dress in your saddlebag spare clothes and set off again. To Beaver Hollow, but you can't afford to be going on the main roads when Dutch and Micah's crooked little crew roam the roads so often. Javier, Bill - they might help you get back to camp at the very least, and you know you can trust John. But the rest of them?

You spit, still tasting cigar smoke and the awful aftertaste of tequila. Dutch's mouth.

As soon as sunlight reaches the valley you're riding across, you speed Merlin up as much as you can tolerate, finding yourself - more than anything, of all the things to be thinking about - enjoying the beautiful scenery.

No bustle of a camp, alive or half-dead. No city sounds, the bustle of commerce and _society;_ no small town sounds or the bland noise of a ranch. All you hear is birds and wind, leaves rustling in trees. You watch a trophy buck wander at a distance, consider killing it for camp.

You watch it for a few moments, and then Merlin crunches a branch underfoot and the deer leaps off. It's better this way.

You feel good out here. You consider camping out here until you die (and let animals eat your corpse so no one ever knows what happened to you, you know how nosy those historian types are). Decide against it because of Arthur, but _only_ because of him.

It's a long, sore ride. When you make the loop back around the outskirts of Saint Denis around seven or eight that morning, you strain at the sound of gunshots and wonder if that could be Dutch, cutting another bloody path out of town. You stray further from the city just to be safe, back off into the wilderness, and only dip back onto the roads when you need the direction.

You make it back by noon, trying your damndest not to stiff-walk your way back into camp. John stops you at the sentry camp, concern in his face. You kind of hate it.

"Are you alright? You'n Dutch went out a couple days ago and we ain't heard from either of you since, so--"

"A _couple?_ "

John seems mildly taken aback at your lost time. Now he _really_ looks worried, looking you up and down.

"I'm fine," you say, not sure if you're lying anymore. "Just… mentally exhausted. You know how Dutch is."

"Apparently I'm just now starting to find out."

John throws a wary look back at camp. Pulls out a map, and you lean in like you're trying to read it, watching his finger point at nothing in particular as he speaks.

"Micah's up there with a couple of thugs. Told me I should send you straight to him, so what I'm _actually_ gonna do is suggest you get the hell out of here until Arthur's back. I can't have a shootout with Jack runnin' around."

Micah's the last person you want to deal with after that last little encounter, especially without Arthur or Dutch around to exert some proper authority and keep him in line. He's slimy, only gets cocky when no one is around to make him cower.

"I get it," you say, like John's just told you something fascinating, and start the walk back to Merlin. "Thank you, but I just realized I forgot to go hunting. You look terrible, John. I'll shoot something right away."

"Yeah, yeah." John waves you off, turning back to his lookout. "Get outta here."

Once you're saddled up again, you pull out Dutch's money clip and press a wad of bills into John's hand. You're not sure how much, it doesn't really matter. He wads them up and stuffs them in his pocket like trash, but you recognize the knowing look in his eyes.

"Compliments of Mr. van der Linde himself."

"Well, looks like Robin Hood's riding again after all."

You take off, cutting back into the trees and into the wilderness, just off the road. You need to find somewhere to lie low for a few days, Dutch is liable to be furious and you can't begrudge Arthur wanting to go off on his own and stay gone. The camp is one big crate of dynamite waiting for a spark.

You don't recognize hoofbeats behind you right away, but once you do, it only takes a cursory glance to recognize Micah's familiar outline. You slow down when he waves in a mock-friendly fashion to you, but you don't stop, and you don't even slow down that much. Your horses are still puffing as you go.

"Deadeye! Ain't seen you since you ran off with Dutch." His head tilts, eyes narrow, but the crooked smile doesn't leave. "Where's he at?"

"Back at the bar, probably. Some of us have to hunt for the food we eat." You shrug nonchalantly, but you can tell he's going to be insistent this time.

"Yeahhhh, sure. But you know, I get the impression Dutch ain't gonna just let you wander off by yourself these days."

"What do you mean?" you ask, just a little too quickly, and then try to correct yourself. "If anything, he seems more tired of me than ever. Maybe I'll go find a quiet hole to die in for you."

"Can't say I wouldn't like to see it happen, Deadeye," Micah drawls, smug and untouchable, and God you hate him. Hate him different than you hate Dutch, even. It's remarkable how awful they both are, in their own ways. "But Dutch has other plans for you. 'til you keel over, that is. He's _real_ fond of you, son."

" _Don't,_ you snap, "call me that."

"Sure, pardner. But my point stands." He's right alongside you now, too close for comfort and only seeming to get closer, and you pull away just as he starts reaching for you. "I know you ain't got the guts to kill 'im, so I think me and you are gonna go find him."

It feels really, really good to punch Micah Bell off his horse. Just dead in the eye, too, you love that. You immediately kick Merlin into a sprint, listening to Micah roar behind you as he struggles his way back into his saddle and gives pursuit. But Merlin is so much faster than his mutt horse, a black bolt across the grass, and you wind into a thicket of trees without difficulty.

That's what makes it all the worse when Merlin lets out a shrill whinny and buckles, dumping you over his head and face-first into the dirt. You turn to see blood, his leg blown out with a precise shot. Far too fine an aim to be Micah's.

You're not sure why everything moves slowly when you turn to look at Dutch a little ways down the road, lowering his gun. Maybe it's shock. Everything moves jerky, or maybe your eyes aren't tracking right as you grasp uselessly at Merlin's destroyed leg. Dutch trots over beside you, eying you and your horse. Slides off the Count's back and walks over, reaches into your pocket, and retrieves his money clip.

"Dutch--"

He doesn't answer. Just unloads two more bullets into Merlin's head as he passes.

You don't have it in you to give him a fight, and he doesn't seem interested in one as he mounts his horse and rides off again, back towards camp. You don't really start to think again until you hear the steady trot of Micah's horse behind you, his long whistle.

"Just don't learn, do ya, Deadeye? Got sticky fingers? What's left of 'em, anyway?" Micah's chuckling at his own jokes as he hauls you away from your dead horse, and you make to swing on him again until you hear the click of his gun. "Easy, cowboy. Shouldn't let Dutch go off on his lonesome."

He drags you up onto his horse, but you refuse to hold onto him, still numb. Angry, distantly, a thunder that's growing in your ears as this mutt horse stumbles its ungainly way through the grass.

It's a long ride, and all you can think about is killing Dutch. It consumes you. And when Micah slows down just outside camp, when you get off his horse and he's off the horse and saying some _fucking bullshit_ as he tries to grab you by your shoulder--

You turn and sock him again, which just keeps surprising him, somehow. The crunch of his teeth tearing into your knuckle is painful, is what you _want,_ but is ultimately unsatisfying. You don't want his blood.

You walk into camp like you've got a purpose, and John falls into line behind you when he sees the blood on your clothes and the murderous rage in your eyes. Makes the same mistake Micah did, trying to grab you and stop you. The commotion Abigail makes when you punch her husband is enough to get Dutch tilting his head to hear your approach better, his back to you as he faces his tent.

The two men you don't recognize are sitting in front of him, and they both eye you as you approach. When Micah comes out of the brush hollering, they pull their guns on you, and all you can think to do is sneer.

"Don't mind him," Dutch drawls, hands coming up in an easy gesture. He turns slow, a hand dropping idle to his hip. "Just another sore loser."

Is that a fucking _joke?_

"If you were a real man, you wouldn't _need_ a gang to protect you from me," you spit, and Dutch's head tilts, the slightest sneer curling his lips. "Getting soft in your old age?"

"You know more than anybody here how _hard_ I can get," Dutch drawls back, and your face flushes a tell-tale red. It's supposed to be a secret and he just doesn't _care._ "Don't you, son?"

Javier looks down away from you, while Bill seems just plain confused, realization setting in slow. Faces in the gang change, even minutely - even John seems distracted when he throws an arm around your midsection to keep you from charging Dutch, unsure whether to look at you or Dutch.

"That's _enough,_ " John says, digging his heels into the dirt and hauling you back. "What the hell is going on here?"

"Dutch and I have some business to settle," you say, clipped, and the man himself laughs behind you.

"Cut the theatrical shit, son." He taps the ash off a cigar. "I shot his horse."

"You shot--" John glances at you and back to Dutch. "Why the hell would you do that, Dutch?"

"Who knows? He's _deranged._ " You shove John off of you, wheeling around to face Dutch again. "You can all see it. He's cracking under the pressure. Leading us all to our goddamn _deaths_ on these - these _fairy tales!_ Tahiti, Guarma, fucking New York--"

"That's enough," Dutch says, terse. "You've had your little tantrum."

"How many of them are dead because of you, Dutch?" You gesture wildly at the camp, and there's an unspoken shift in the bedraggled crowd. "Should I start naming them off for you? Lenny--"

"I told you to _stop,_ " Dutch spits, starting over like he's going to try to intimidate you into silence.

"Sean--"

He's building like a thundercloud, like an angry God coming for the reckoning as his loyal guns step back and give the two of you the floor.

"And _Hosea,_ we can't forget about your better half--"

He's got his rings back on now. You can feel them just under your eye when he punches you. But you're ready for the blow, expecting - _waiting_ for it, even - and you throw your weight into his, tipping the two of you over into the dirt.

He's winning before long, of course. Your rage can only spur your dying body on so much, and even if you manage to land a few choice blows in the flurry of flailing limbs and blows, Dutch is stronger by far. Gets his hands around your throat again, and you're sure he's going to strangle you this time, he looks damn near rabid.

You shove your knee in his balls and get a _very_ satisfying grunt of pain, enough looseness around your throat to suck in a quick breath. But he straddles your thighs and squeezes tighter than ever before long, and the sounds of the gang alternately cheering Dutch on (fucking Micah), showing uncertainty, or shouting for Dutch to stop (John, Abigail, Sadie, Charles, a few of the girls).

None of it works. No one is willing to stop him, no one has the nerve with this many guns around, and gradually, your vision darkens at its edges.

You always sort of expected Dutch to kill you. You're pleasantly surprised it isn't happening in a bed, like you predicted.

"--at is _enough,_ " you hear someone roar, and someone is dragging Dutch off of you by force. Dutch loosens his grip on you as soon as his murderous spell is broken, tearing away from Arthur's touch just as surely as Micah crowds in around the tyrant's right side, gun drawn.

"Easy there, Black Lung," Micah drawls, slinking around Dutch as the man turns his back on you and sets his hands on his hips, still reddened, hands flexing in and out of fists beside him. "Show Dutch a little respect when he's handling _discipline cases,_ why don't you?"

You're still choking on your breaths when Arthur hauls you up into a sitting position, crouched beside you. Coughing, now, a bloody wet thing that wracks your sickly frame.

"What the hell happened here?" Arthur's palming you over to ensure the blood isn't yours before he pulls you to your feet.

"Dutch shot his horse."

"He--"

Arthur looks at you, spitting blood in the dirt. Shifts in place like he's agitated, his voice hard.

"And why the _hell_ would he do that?"

"Like I said. Discipline." Micah steps back as Dutch turns to face you both, a dark bruise building on his brow already. You must look a thousand times worse. "Tell 'em, boss."

"He took something from me, Arthur. I only thought it fair to take something from him." Dutch steps forward, bold. "And what _is_ any of this to you, Arthur? Why does it matter how I run my camp? You seem _unhappy_ with the way I do things as of late."

"What is _happening,_ Dutch?" Arthur says, glancing over again when you start to cough. He pushes you towards John, who sweeps you back towards your tent. "What's happening to us? What's happening to _you?_ "

Back in your tent, you make your way to the shaving kit. You're bruised, but it's no worse than what you've already had before, so you go numbly through the process of cleaning up. Again. You only stop when you catch sight of John's rising bruise in the mirror, turning around to press the wet cloth to his face instead.

"Wha--"

"I'm sorry," you say, and John waves you off, shaking his head as you mop blood off your face, try to get it out from underneath your fingernails. "I didn't mean--"

"I know you didn't." A scoff. "I don't even know who Dutch is anymore. Why'd he actually shoot your horse? The hell happened between you two while you were gone?"

You might as well tell him the truth, but your tongue feels thick in your mouth when you try to explain in detail exactly what happened to you last night. John watches you for a moment as your jaw works, trying to find the words.

"I know--"

He pauses. Tries to think hard on what words to use.

"I already figured he'd done somethin' to you," John says, slow. "Dutch, he - you ain't exactly the first."

"I know," you say, and it's John's turn to work his jaw, terse. He stares at the flap of your tent as he answers.

"No. You don't know."

"Christ," you say, hollow, and hang your head. You don't need it spelled out. "I'm sorry."

" _I'm_ sorry. I knew - me and Arthur both knew what he was like a long time before you got here, and we still let it happen all over again. It wasn't--"

A pause. He breathes out, short and frustrated. Dutch and Arthur are shouting outside.

"To be fair, I did an _incredible_ job of covering for him," you finally say, like it doesn't bother you. Like none of this bothers you, like you don't want to stalk out there again with a gun and blow his head off. "Whatever _arrangement_ Dutch thinks we had is through. I'm--"

The thunder of hoofbeats. You and John rush out with guns drawn expecting Pinkertons, but see Indians instead, painted for war. You've never spoken to the Chief's son, but Dutch breaks off from Arthur with the sort of exuberance you know by now is fake, stoking the young man's rage. When the Chief implores him to stop, you find yourself staggering out into the fray, pushing Arthur's hand away when he tries to steady you.

"Don't let him do this to you," you tell Eagle Flies, hacking, spitting blood. "He'll kill all of you. Don't let him _do this._ "

"I think we've heard more than enough out of you today," Dutch says, idly.

"Ride with me!"

Ride _what?_ You forget for a moment that Merlin is dead, only to see his empty space at the hitching post and flush with new hatred. You glance at Dutch just in time to meet his eye, and see a similar burn in his look.

"I'll ride with Arthur," you say, brushing past Dutch.

"Oh, I'm sure you will." Dutch sneers as you pass, watches Arthur slip between the two of you. Ensuring distance. "Who else?"

Everyone. You grab Arthur's arm and haul yourself up onto the back of his horse, checking the guns on your hips. Whatever is between you and Dutch now is beside the point when Eagle Flies and his men are on the line.

You can't help but feel like you're wading into a massacre of Dutch's own design. And when you arrive, you realize you were right.

\---

"So good of you two to join us," Dutch drawls when he sees the two of you with Eagle Flies, bullet-nipped and bloody. Not your blood, of course, you're miraculously _not_ getting shot in the shoulder today. "Hello, son. Saved your life?"

"They did. Both of them."

"Well well. Quite the heroes, ain't we?"

Arthur says _just a regular good guy_ and you say _well someone around here has to be_ at the same time, in the same deadpan tone, and Dutch's expression falls almost comically. Good.

"What is it with you, Arthur? Ezra?"

"I don't understand you no more," Arthur says, shaking his head. "I don't."

"I don't think I ever did," you add on. Dutch glowers.

"The doubting, the doubting. Now I know where Ezra's contracted it."

"That's funny, Dutch." You force a laugh, smearing gunpowder over your face as you rub at it. "All anyone needs is a pair of eyes and half a brain to doubt you."

You follow the two of them, snipping all the way, up to the office. To the bonds that Dutch squirrels away immediately, and then backstairs, only to pass through another hail of bullets. You've managed to stay in pace with Dutch when you hear the hiss of a steam pipe and Arthur's cry of pain behind you, and you turn, his name already in your mouth. You can't see him.

"Arth--"

Dutch shoves you away from the hallway entirely too easily. Arthur is calling out to you and Dutch, desperate, _I need help--_

You turn back, calling out to him, and it's all the opportunity he needs. The handle of a gun connects hard with your temple, and your weight sags over his arm, the world going black.

\---

You wake up on the back of a horse, slumped against Arthur's weight. Your head is throbbing as you sit up, your hands finding the material of… a vest? Not the roughspun thread of Arthur's clothes.

"Dutch," you slur, and nearly tumble off the Count's back from the shock. Dutch reaches back to steady you. "What--"

"Easy, son. We did it." He laughs, light and warm like he hasn't in weeks, maybe months. "It all went off without a hitch."

"Arthur?" you say, and Dutch only answers with a vaguely uninterested _hmm?_ until you straighten up, gripping his arm. "Where is _Arthur?_ "

"Oh, he's just fine, Ezra. Taking that Indian boy back to his father as we speak." He glances back at you, eyes keen. "How's your head, son? Soldier gave you a hell of a knot back there."

"A soldier?"

"Of course. Must've slipped in when we turned back for Arthur," Dutch says, and you - you're having a hard time remembering anything about what happened in that room, honestly. It was dark, steam all around - you remember hearing Arthur say _I need help,_ but that's all. He chuckles, low. "And the two of you _doubted_ me."

"Why am I riding with you?" you ask, tired.

"I thought we should talk, son. That whole… _bad_ business with the horse--"

Oh, this is about getting himself into your good graces again. That's all he ever cares about. Your voice turns hard no matter how much you know you need to rein it in when the two of you are alone like this.

" _Merlin,_ you snap. " _My_ horse. I've only foaled him and raised him myself, why would I be _upset_ about that, Dutch?"

"I _know._ I was--"

"If you try to tell me you were just _hungover,_ I swear to God--"

You stop short when you leave the treeline, looking over a ranch. Not yours, nicer by far.

"I am _trying_ to make things right," Dutch says, strained. "Humor me? _Please?_ "

The two of you amble over to the fence, and a ranch hand rides up to ask what the hell you're doing out at this time of night.

"Hello," Dutch says cheerily, and shoots him dead. "Hop off and help yourself to a horse, son. Finest in the county. Try to be fast."

"Where are you going?"

"Just up to the house for a cordial conversation," Dutch says, and you recognize code for _kill every man, woman and child and rob the corpses_ when you see it. You'd rather not be there for that, honestly, so you slide off the Count's back and duck into the stables.

A young farmhand aims a revolver at you when your eyes adjust. You ignore him and his shaking weapon, heading over to the prize race horses.

"Don't make me kill you, son," you drawl in that distinctly Dutch-like manner, and it's enough to snap his nerves clean in two. He runs, doesn't even have the sense to keep a hold on his gun, and you kick it into the hay before choosing yourself a prize Arabian with wispy thin legs and a restless energy you approve of. He's eager to be saddled up and out of the pen, lighter than you're used to, but shifty when it actually comes to being _ridden._

It'll be fine, probably. There's no way riding a nervous horse could ever come back to bite you in the ass.

Dutch rides out to meet you a few minutes later, fresh blood on his cuffs as he throws you a pillowcase full of valuables.

"Exotic tastes?"

"They're fast," you say, turning your horse around.

"Planning on running off?" Dutch falls into pace beside you as the two of you ride away from the ranch. It's burning behind you, now. "Oh, and things were just getting good."

"I'm not planning on anything," you lie, ducking through some low-hanging brush. "We have a train job, don't we?"

"I was wondering the same thing, myself. You seem so terribly _dour_ lately, Mr. Fairchild. It makes a man wonder if you're even still following."

"I have to be following _someone_ around here, aren't I?"

You misspoke. Dutch's expression shifts, brows going up. He could take the obvious barb and needle you about your relationship with Arthur, but he only looks at you a moment before glancing up at the sky, the stars.

"We'll need to bed down for the night."

"That never really seems to work out well for me, does it? Bedding down with you." You keep your horse at a steady pace. "I'll ride through."

"I--" Dutch stops, starts again, more casually. "I don't see why I would be a problem when you have a gun on each hip."

You could shoot him. The idea has you slowing, if only a bit, because you're terribly tired, and even if you still need Dutch - even if half of them would gun you down immediately if you came back without him, they _know_ the score now - you almost want to tempt him into trying something and getting shot for his trouble.

Your eyes droop. You're sore from riding this horse bareback. But Dutch swoops around in front of you and the sight of him has you shaking your head, brushing past.

"Have a little faith, son."

"You're not putting your dick in me."

"You're _assuming_ an awful lot tonight, aren't you? You think I don't get tired?" Dutch scoffs. "This little detour of ours is a day and a half from camp. You can't ride _all night._ "

You can't see this late, not well. And sure, you could strike out on your own  
and hope some random hungry animal doesn't drag you off your horse, or you could get a few minutes of nervous sleep with a gun in your hand. You look him over now, and he does genuinely look exhausted.

"...Alright," you say, finally, and Dutch smiles, apparently relieved he's not going to have to camp alone or follow you all night. "But I'm not starting the fire."

"Then shoot us something to cook." He turns the Count, leading you into a copse of trees. "And don't expect any bells and whistles."

"Not used to setting up your own camp, Dutch?"

You leave him with that question, his eyes dark as he watches you go. You're back in twenty minutes with a field-dressed turkey, and you settle in across from Dutch, both roasting hunks of meat over the fire with your knives. It stays quiet for far too long, conversation next to nothing. What's there to talk about?

Mostly, you just stare at each other. Like stags before a clash.

"You know, it ain't always gotta be this tense between us, son." You expected Dutch to be neater, bu he chews like a savage. At least he waits to speak between mouthfuls. "I'm trying to make things right."

"I see that."

"Somehow I don't think you do."

You spread your hands, noncommittal.

"What do you want from me, Dutch? To tell you _all is forgiven?_ Do you want me to be your friend? My trust? Or do you just _need_ me too much to let me go?"

Dutch says nothing for a few long moments, the firelight glittering in his eyes.

"Been doing some thinking on this lately?"

"You're avoiding the question."

"What have I _ever_ asked of you, Ezra?" He sounds so _exhausted_ that you almost feel guilty, for a moment. Before you remember what an asshole he is. "A little loyalty. Just a little trust. I have given you the _world_ and then some and it's never been enough for you."

God, he's good. If this were just a few months ago, it would have undoubtedly worked. As it is though, you sit there and listen to his little speech and wonder where Arthur is, how he's doing. Your chest hurts. You can't imagine what condition _he's_ in after all that strain at the Army depot.

"What do _you_ want, son? Tell me what you want and I will do my damndest to give it to you."

"I want to go to sleep, Dutch," you say, droll. You can't say his face falls, but it does shift just a touch, and he smiles. It never reaches his eyes these days unless it's money.

"Of course. Son." You sheath your knife and slip back onto your roll, eyes on Dutch all the while. He lifts his last piece of turkey. "I'll just finish this and turn in. Best get a move on early."

"I agree." You slip your revolvers off and set them aside, still easily within reach, and eye dutch a moment longer. "Goodnight, Dutch."

"Goodnight, son."

You shut your eyes. But you're awake long after, listening close as Dutch finishes his food, stretches, and lies down. You listen to his breathing for a while, listening to it go slow and deep.

It's amazing you last that long. You're exhausted too, and sleep hits fast and hard.

Tonight, unlike most nights, you dream. You dream about an eagle, for some reason, but it's not an odd dream. It's serene, restful in a way you haven't had in months. Your last thoughts before sleep are fragmented wondering if Arthur is sleeping as well as you right now.

You wake up suffocating, surprised Dutch isn't kneeling on your chest - your breaths are desperate, strangled little things, shallow and not nearly enough. But Dutch rouses with his gun aimed in your general direction, blearily focusing on you in the dark until he realizes what's happening.

"Son?" Dutch sits up, and you try to wave him off and sit up, but it's not - you _can't._ You can't catch your breath. Didn't bring your poppy draught along with you in the commotion, and now you're paying for it dearly, barely aware of Dutch filling the corner of your vision. "Are you alright? Ez--"

You can't hear him anymore, ears cottony. Can hardly even see him, although you do realize on some level that he isn't touching you, isn't coming too close. He's just staring at you. Just _watching_ you die.

"Dutch--" you gasp, thin, and grab at his sleeve with a blood-slick hand. He recoils from you like you're a fucking leper, and you grasp helplessly for him as your vision blots out. "--please--"

You don't know what he says, in the end.

Your feverish snatches of consciousness are of lying in the dirt, gasping, a vague shifting of figures off to your side. Blackness, for a while longer. Hands, picking you up and checking your pulse, palming your clammy face. Sounds, distant - whoever has you freezes, drags you further into the brush, but your coughing is impossible to hide.

_\--ome out right now and lay down your guns or you will be shot--_

_\--or the murder and arson--_

_\--Go to hell--_

A firefight. That's enough to force you back to consciousness, and you paw blindly for guns you realize you didn't pick up. You throw a wild look around you, at Dutch crouching beside you behind a couple trees and trying to pick off what you're pretty sure are bounty hunters, or some kind of lawmen.

You throw an arm out for your gun and recoil at a near miss, and Dutch cusses, ducks over to the opposite side and kicks your guns over to you.

"For Chrissake, son!" He sounds strained. " _Kill them!_ "

You can hardly breathe and you still plug them both in the foreheads, picking yourself out of the dirt unsteadily. Dutch is right there with you, both of you picking over the bodies. Dutch flashes you a badge with a sneer.

"Pinkertons."

"This close?" You're wheezing still, staggering towards your horse. Dutch takes your cue and mounts the Count, and you abandon everything at your makeshift camp, following Dutch's lead. "This isn't good, Dutch--"

"I _know,_ " he snaps, and then seems to try to rein himself in. "I know, I know. But this doesn't _change_ anything."

"What do you mean this doesn't change anything? The Pinkertons are _here._ There's no more time, Dutch!"

"Just one more job--"

"It's always just one more _job--_ "

You're coughing again, working yourself up. Dutch looks at you with concern now, and maybe something else, something darker. But you catch your breath in the end, and he seems to focus on the road, cutting a path back to Beaver Hollow.

"Don't tell anyone about the Pinkertons, Ezra." He cuts you off before you can argue, already knows you're going to. " _Anyone._ We do _not_ need a panic right now."

"Don't you think they should know the Pinkertons are shitting in our backyard, Dutch?"

"It's just one more train! One more _goddamn_ train and we are free of the Pinkertons or anyone else for the rest of our natural lives! How do you not _see_ that, Ezra?"

There's always another job. Always another train, another county, another country, another island paradise, and you finally realize now that Dutch doesn't ever want it to end. Not the blood, not the chaos. Not deep down, not really.

Maybe he's changed. Or maybe he was never who you thought he was in the first place.

"Don't tell anyone," Dutch says again, slow, "about the Pinkertons."

"Yes, sir," you say, tired.

"Call me Dutch, son." You meet his eyes again, briefly. "Just Dutch."

"Dutch."

"Attaboy. We have to stick together, Ezra. We have to _trust_ one another. Can you still do that for me, son? Just one more time?"

"Yes, Dutch."

One _last_ time, but you don't say as much, because Dutch doesn't need to know. It seems the more he knows, the worse your situation gets. So you both fall into riding silence, and you worry your lip with your teeth as you look over at him.

Dutch sees you, at some point, because he must be taking glances at you too.

"Something the matter?"

"I thought--" you begin, but stop short. "Nothing."

"You can tell me anything, Ezra. You know that."

"I'm just surprised you didn't leave me behind," you say, and Dutch scoffs like the idea is ridiculous. Dutch, letting _you_ down? Imagine. "Would've been easy to let the Pinkertons hang me and take the fall for everything."

"Oh, son," Dutch says, laying the sympathy on thick, like that was his exact train of thought and he feels pinned. "I would never. Never leave you behind. You are my brother. You are my _son._ I would go on their scaffold myself before I ever handed you over to the law."

"Mm," you reply, and Dutch stops his horse in front of yours, grasping you by the arm to get your attention. "Dutch--"

"I would _never_ leave you behind. No matter your… condition." You wheeze and he pulls away, like he's afraid you'll get it from him just by touch. He smooths your clothes down instead, trying to distract you. "And if you can't have faith in me, you can have faith in that."

He spurs his horse on ahead, and you keep a close tail all the way back to camp. Everyone sees you come in with Dutch, everyone sees your new horse as you tie it to the hitching post. There seems to be fewer people at the campfire, for some reason or another. You don't realize until you try to bring some game in that Pearson is gone, and so is Uncle, and Dutch goes caustic and sour at the news, sulking in his ratty tent.

"Cowards," he mutters, Micah sweeping in at his side. _Yeah, boss. Probably left a trail of piss on their way out, right boss?_ God, you hate him. You try to head towards your tent, but Dutch reels you back in with a hand on your shoulder. " _Cowards,_ Ezra."

"Sure, Dutch."

"You don't think so? You don't think _running_ after all we've been through together is sheer cowardice?" He scoffs, throwing himself into his seat. Micah supplies the light for his cigar. "For God's sake, you've been here a fraction of the time and _you're_ more loyal."

"I'm also dying, Dutch," you helpfully note, and Micah snorts. Not like it's news to him. "I don't really have anywhere else to be right now."

"You are not _dying._ You're - you ain't doing too good right now, but you're young. You'll recover."

"Sure, _Ezra,_ " Micah adds on, and you hate the way he says your name. "Ya look better than ever, matter of fact. Sure as hell looking better than Morgan."

Dutch sees the sharp look you give Micah through your lashes as you accept a dirty glass with some murky liquor in the bottom. No telling what it is. Not that you really care anymore.

"Where is Arthur, by the by?" you ask, your voice light. "You said he was taking Eagle Flies back to his father."

"Yeahhhh, might take him a while. Him and the boy weren't lookin' so good when they left," Micah drawls, enjoying the way you prickle. "Just don't be shocked if one of these days, ol' Black Lung don't come crawling back."

You finish your drink, pass the glass to Micah like he's a servant (the look on his face is priceless), and stand.

"I really should get some rest."

"You really should stay," Dutch replies, his hand firm around your wrist. "We have a train to talk about, after all. Wouldn't want to leave you out of the loop."

You need to look for Arthur, but Dutch isn't budging, staring at you until you sit back down. And every time you try to slip away - every time you excuse yourself for a drink or to piss, Dutch always says _come right back, now, we're not finished_ and Micah watches where you go, heading out to find you when you take too long.

You barely even hear the plan for the train. Never robbed a train before, but they all have, so it's not like you can't just do what you've been doing this entire time and copy whatever they do. Not like Dutch doesn't tell you _I need you with me the entire time, Ezra,_ not like they both aren't breathing down your neck whenever you try to get away.

Your freedom, it seems, is now severely limited. Dutch keeps you in his sight until he can't anymore, when Sadie says Arthur's name outside and you stroll out of the tent ignoring him, out to find Arthur who--

Who looks like hell. You thought the consumption was taking _you_ fast, but Arthur's got raccoon eyes and pale skin, sweating just a little too much in this weather as you come to meet him.

"Arthur," you say, and he looks so tired, so tired. "Eagle Flies?"

"Dead," Arthur says, and the two of you look at Dutch before turning your backs on him, heading towards Arthur's tent. You know he must be fuming back there. "Got shot savin' my life. Where the hell did you two go back in that factory? Dutch--"

The man's head tilts, like he heard his name from across camp. You sweep an arm around Arthur's shoulders and lead him into his tent proper, pushing him to sit down, taking off his hat and wetting a washcloth. You go over his skin with it, getting off the dirt and sweat and blood and god knows what else, and he leans back against the bed and shuts his eyes, breathing out like his bones are settling.

"Where _were_ you? Where was Dutch?" His voice sounds tired, but urgent. "I needed help."

"I tried to go back, but Dutch--"

The realization hits you both at the same time. Maybe not Arthur quite so much, who seems to already have arrived to this conclusion, but it's only just now making sense for you.

"I tried to go back, and he pushed me. Said - something. I shouted for you."

"I heard. Didn't hear Dutch none."

"I turned around and - someone hit me. When I woke up, I was on the back of Dutch's horse, and he said you were taking Eagle Flies home. I didn't know - he never said--"

Never said Eagle Flies was injured. Didn't even seem to care that he was dying. Didn't seem to care that Arthur was in danger either. Unimportant details now that _the plan_ is coming together, you suppose. Who cares who dies as long as Dutch gets what he wants?

"He's trying something," you say, quick and urgent. "Got me a new horse. Didn't try anything with me last night at camp. Won't hardly let me out of his sight here. He's trying to do something, Arthur."

"I know. I feel like I don't know him no more. Like I maybe never really did."

"We have to get out of here. We have to--"

The tent flaps come open, and there's Dutch, smiling at you both like fucking sunshine.

"Interrupting something, boys?" You don't comprehend at first until he gestures to your rag. "Seem to be busy with the Nightingale routine. Should I come back later?"

"No," you both say, and you sweep the rag over Arthur's neck one last time before dropping it in the washbin. Dutch watches it entirely too closely for your liking. "Just trying to catch up."

"Eagle Flies is dead," you say, and Dutch's expression doesn't even twitch.

"Bad business. Come on out here, Arthur. We need to talk."

You can't say you're shocked at the total lack of remorse, but it fits his character these days, doesn't it? Arthur and Dutch slip out and you straighten Arthur's things before you follow, seeing them having a hushed, intense conversation over by Dutch's tent. You join everyone else at the fire, but your ears strain to hear their conversation.

It's all going according to usual, but Arthur says something, and Dutch _stops._ Looks at him like he's grown another head, like he did when you tried to kiss him back in Shady Belle, his eyes narrowing. Focusing this hard, you read his lips.

_Insist?_

_Yeah,_ Arthur says. _Insist._

For a moment, you think he's going to kill Arthur right then and there. Then the smile flits in, his hands come up in disarm.

"Of course, pal. Whatever you think is best. I will see to it."

He's going to kill Arthur. It's good that Dutch rouses all of you to get to work anyway, because you immediately fall into line and find yourself nonchalantly _nudged_ by Micah to the front, at Dutch's left side. Away from Arthur.

"He _insists_ on it," you hear Dutch mutter, heated. " _Insists._ "

"Dutch?"

"Nothing Ezra, just a little something on my mind. Let's get to work."

\---

The train goes according to Dutch's plan. _Only_ Dutch's plan.

"John's dead," he says when you ride back with the money, and you sit with that all the way back until you hear that Milton's got Abigail. That they're going to hang her. And when Micah starts off in his ear, _she's just a girl, we have to ride--_

"Shut the _fuck_ up, Micah," you spit, and wheel on Dutch. "Don't do this to us, Dutch."

" _We_ are still alive. _We_ have everything we need." Dutch reaches for your arm, like he's going to pull you onto the Count's back with him. "And _you_ ain't thinking clearly. Get on the horse, son."

You don't have to answer. Arthur slaps Dutch's hand off you like it's a venomous snake, putting himself between you two, and you swear something falls in Dutch's face when you set your arm on Arthur's, reassuring.

"So that's your choice." Dutch snorts, nasty. "To think I ever thought you deserved one. Let's ride, boys."

They're gone, soon enough. Arthur gives Tilly his share of the money, tells her to live a good life. She looks to you next, teary.

"You're a good man, Ezra," she says, and you smile.

"I don't think so, but I sure like to hear it. Get out of here, miss Tilly."

"Three of us is all we need," Sadie says, saddling her horse up. "Come on, Arthur. Ezra. Let's get Abigail."

You do, in the end. Not before Sadie gets captured, you go in after her and catch a bullet to the _fucking shoulder again oh my god._ It's enough for them to disarm you, and then you're staring down the barrel of Milton's gun, looking up at him from your spot sitting against the wall.

"Mr. Fairchild."

"Agent Milton."

"You're looking quite a bit rougher than the last time we spoke." He cocks his gun. "Outlaw life not what you imagined?"

"Oh no, it's exactly what I imagined," you huff, and then spin off into more coughs, sitting with your back to the wall, gripping your shoulder. This one feels like it's in the bone. Fuck.

"You had your chance to get out."

"I'm an idiot, Mr. Milton. That's the long and short of it." You reach into your jacket, pluck out a pack of cigarettes. "Mind if I smoke?"

"Should you be, with that cough?"

"I'm dying, Mr. Milton. Does it matter anymore?"

To your surprise, he lights your cigarette. You're still smoking it by the time Arthur comes barging in and gets himself under Milton's gun, and he goes ahead and spills the beans for you both.

"That's quite a cough you both have."

"Tuberculosis. We're dyin', Mr. Milton."

"Hell of a way to go out," you add in, still smoking your cigarette. "Hello Arthur."

"Hey Ezra." He looks back to Milton. "Good thing is, you're dyin' with us--"

You're bound at your ankles and wrists with rope, so you can do little more than flop around when they struggle for the gun. When Milton begins to overpower Arthur easily, _you're losing your strength, Mr. Morgan,_ and god, you're both really dying, aren't you?

Abigail saves the day. Cuts the two of you loose, and then back on the horses, away from the commotion, he tells her the news about John as you pass her and Sadie your sack of money.

"We ain't gonna need it where we're going," Arthur says, helping you lift it up. It's a struggle for you both. "You're good women. Good people."

"Where are you two going?"

"We've got business with Dutch," you say, your smile wry, "and not a whole lot of time left to take care of it. Take care of yourselves. Take care of Jack."

"He calls you uncle," Abigail tells you, teary, and you're not sure why that makes your eyes feel so hot. "Says - says he wants you to teach him to shoot like you do."

"God forbid," you tell them with a wet-eyed smile, and turn back to mount your horse. "Goodbye, Abigail. Goodbye Sadie. And tell Jack goodbye for me, when he's older."

They're gone, soon enough. You look to Arthur, both of you clammy and pale, feverish, half-dead and smiling.

"We're going to die here, aren't we?" you say, easy.

"Yeah, probably so." Arthur offers you a wry smile. "Sure you don't want to head back home? Might be able to make it to that nice bed at your ranch before you keel over."

"You know you're the only person I plan on dying with."

"That's real stupid," Arthur says, dipping his head to hide his eyes with his hat brim, but you catch the smile. Small, genuine. Thankful. "But I appreciate it. Let's get a move on."

"Always."

You'd die a thousand times for this man before you so much as lifted another finger for Dutch. But you imagine, as you ride off for Beaver Hollow one last time, that you'll only need to die just the once.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The natural "makes sense" ending! These epilogues are 20k words each already, help me you guys.

You're not surprised you all end up pointing guns at each other. It was always going to end this way, wasn't it?

"Dutch, use your goddamn head," you say, pointing guns at Micah, at Bill. "It's been _Micah._ It's always been _Micah._ "

"You and Black Lung have your head in the clouds ain't you ain't even dead yet." Micah's got a gun trained at you, probably still smarting for all the times you've punched him out. "Think about it, Dutch. Wasn't everything going just fine until _Fairchild_ turned up?"

"He's a snake, Dutch!" Arthur shouts, but the man himself seems uncertain, glancing between all of you. "All them years--"

Grimshaw falls to your left, and you're the only one who takes to her side, putting pressure on a bullet wound you know is going to kill her. She grips at you, eyes wild with pain, leaves bloody prints on your clothes and your chest--

John, and then Pinkertons, both in short order. Grimshaw is dead by the time someone drags you out of the Pinkerton's aim, bullets flying by your head, and the sheer adrenaline has you following mindlessly. You and Arthur have to get out of here, it's over, it's--

It's not Arthur who has you by the arm.

"Come _on,_ " Dutch snarls as soon as you dig your heels into the dirt, trying to twist away from him. "I am _not_ letting you make the wrong decision--"

Micah socks you hard in the mouth, sends you spinning to the dirt, and then Dutch is waving at Javier and Bill to haul your woozy, still weakly fighting form along with them. Arthur is calling your name desperately over the gunfire, and Dutch flashes a chimp-like smile ahead of you at his audible concern.

He's taking you away from Arthur for the last time, and he finds it glorious.

"Tie him up, throw him over a horse. After we're done here, we head back to the Fairchild ranch and clear it out." Dutch's voice echoes out ahead of you as Javier binds your wrists with coarse rope, drags you over the back of his horse. "Should give us a place to lie low for a few days before we move on."

"You son of a bitch!" You throw yourself off the back of Javier's horse and scramble for purchase in the dirt, but a coughing fit seizes you. Leaves you harmless as Micah circles you, leering. "Fuck you--"

"Game's over, Deadeye." He kneels, grabbing a fistful of your hair and levering your coughing face so you can see him. "Now settle down, before you hurt yourself."

"Let's _go,_ " Dutch urges, and Micah hauls you over the back of his horse this time, setting off at a clip that isn't at all comfortable for you.

It feels like the night Dutch took you all over again. Bound, thrown over a horse in the dying light, watching Dutch ride ahead with seething hatred. It's cyclical, all of it. It's been months since the night he spirited you away, and somehow, you managed to end up in the same position all over again.

 _Arthur._ You don't care about Dutch, he was never worth your resentment. Never worth caring about at all. You have to get back to Arthur.

Once Micah starts firing on something, someone - John? - you take the opportunity to throw yourself off his horse, and something in your ribs crunches like paper mache when you hit the ground going that fast. You couldn't breathe anyway, but now you _can't breathe,_ forcing yourself to your feet as you hear Dutch shout after you. Whoever they're shooting at is shooting back, and Micah sneers _we don't have time for this, Dutch_ and takes off, a reluctant Dutch in tow.

You suppose his revenge isn't quite as sweet without stealing you away too. He can choke on it.

You're half-blind and wheezing as you struggle through the brush. Arthur, where is _Arthur?_

John almost shoots you when he runs across you. He swears and catches you as you collapse in relief, in exhaustion, coughing your words up as he cuts the rope around your wrists.

"Where's Arthur?"

"He's - holdin' 'em off. Told me to get gone." He stands and starts to pull you. Arthur gave him his hat, you realize, and you smile. "Come on, you can come with me and Abigail. I know you ain't - I know you're sick, but we can take care of you."

"I appreciate that, John," you say, halting, the words coming slow. "But I can't do that to you. Get your family. Live a _good_ life. I - wait--"

You have pen and paper on you. Always do, these days, but you've never used it like Arthur does. Your penmanship is sloppy with the missing fingers, but you write him a note and sign it, shove it into his hand.

"Take this to the Fairchild ranch outside of Saint Denis. Give it to my father." You grab the solid weight of your grandfather's watch - stolen back from Dutch that drunken, hellish night at the bar - and drop it in his palm as well. "And give the watch to Jack when he's ready."

"Don't do this, Ezra," John says, and god, your heart hurts. God, you almost agree to go with him, if only to keep him from looking so miserable as you get your guns out, reload them each. "You don't have to, you could still--"

"You're terrible with goodbyes, John," you say, pushing past him. "Go on."

He cusses behind you, but the clang of gunfire nearby is enough to scare him off. Good. You hope him and his little family get the life they deserve, finally. You turn and fire on them, but your arm is unsteady with the weight of your own goddamn gun, your shots veering wild.

You run, instead. Hear gunfire higher up the mountain, and that has to be Arthur, it has to be. You come around the ridge just in time to see Arthur wrestle Micah off the edge of the cliff. There's bloodspray in the dirt and you don't think it's from coughing. And you don't think it's from Micah, either.

You look over the edge to see them struggling still, shouting Arthur's name. You level your gun at Micah just in time to watch a stray bullet tear through your hand, fingers spasming and losing grip of the gun as you recoil with a scream.

"Ezra!" Arthur shouts, but the hard packing sound of a fist on flesh cuts him off.

"Ezra," Dutch says, gun still smoking. You've got a hole through your hand now, gripping it uselessly under your arm as you turn to face him. "So good of you to join us again."

"It's over, Dutch," you say. Arthur is dying somewhere beneath you. He's all you can think about. "It's all over."

"It's not--" Dutch is terse, face working hard as he watches the life drain out of you, bit by bit. "It didn't _have_ to be this way. It still doesn't. I have tried to love you in every way I know how."

You laugh, bloody.

"Oh, Dutch." You shake your head, looking up at him as he comes to stand over you. "You never loved me. You just hated that Arthur loved me more."

He seems wounded by that. He _hurts,_ and even if you can't kill him, the pain in his eyes is more than enough to satisfy every wrong he ever did you.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You don't really feel the impact of the bullet when Dutch shoots you, right chest. He says nothing, and you only offer him a smile that tells him you're not disappointed by this turn of events in the least. He can't touch you.

He leaves, then. Can't seem to bear the emotion wracking him as you collapse, gripping uselessly at your chest. You drag yourself over to the edge of the cliff, bleeding hard, and watch him come around and step on Arthur's gun. Watch Arthur roll onto his back, you listen to him talk. _I gave you everything, Dutch._

And if you had hurt Dutch, what happens down there breaks him. He says nothing, at a loss for words for the very first time in his life, probably. He _leaves,_ runs away, and Micah leaves too, and Arthur crawls his way to the ridge, sitting up. You force yourself to your feet, spilling blood all the way, and half-slide, half-collapse down the ridge, leaving deep red streaks on the rock face that'll turn rusty dark before long. It's worth it to get to Arthur, when he looks at you - relief floods his face, and warmth, and maybe something else, too. It's enough to have you picking yourself up again, spitting a mouthful of blood as he sits up, throws a limp arm around you as you take his side for the last time.

He tries to talk, wheezes.

_I--I--_

You shake your head and set it against his shoulder, wrapping his cold hand in yours so he can feel the band around your finger. He squeezes, faintly. Smiles out at the brightening horizon.

His hand goes limp, soon enough, the steady rise of his chest going slow, then still. And soon enough, so does yours.

What a beautiful sunrise.


	18. porntermission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SO I'm still working on this epilogues but it's been legit ages, here's some Shady Belle threesome porn. ayyy.

It always starts innocently enough with Dutch. You should've learned by now never to trust even the most harmless interactions.

But on this night, in the swampy shadow of Shady Belle, just a day's time from robbing the Saint Denis bank, you've made a critical mistake. You've let yourself relax, still thronging with friends and warmth and _life._ You don't even know to appreciate it before it's gone, lingering around the fire while the gang exchanges stories and drinks. Stolen moonshine, potent stuff. Enough to dull your nerves.

Dulls them too much, in fact. When you feel a hand on your shoulder, you don't know to tense and shrug away the touch. You lean into it casually, glancing back, and your reactions are too sluggish to cringe away when you meet Dutch's dark eyes. You only manage a shiver, mouth pulling tighter.

"Can I have a word, son?" he says, and you visibly hesitate. Then you feel the eyes of the gang settling on you - not Arthur's, he disappeared earlier in the night for some odd task - and burning into your skin. If you say no, if you hesitate much longer, they'll know there's something going on. And Dutch retelling the tale of you in white lace isn't something you want.

"Ezra?" Dutch says, gently rolling the R as he raises his brows, and you flush.

"A - word. Of course." You stand, or try to, and the light tension in the camp is broken with laughter when you pinwheel your arms all the way into the dirt. Even Dutch is laughing, booming and deep as he helps you up, like you're friends. Like he cares.

"I think you've had enough of this anyhow," he says, chuckles and watches with amusement as you push away from him and stand on your own, unsteady but determined. "Let's get you inside."

Hosea is still alive, still here to curb Dutch's worst decisions and impulses, but not this one - even as the older man stands, Dutch pulls closer under the guise of keeping you steady.

"Something we need to talk about, Dutch?"

"Oh, nothing important." Dutch drawls his words, sets a hand on your shoulder you're too warm and fuzzy to effectively get away from. Not sure you would even if you were sober, if you'd even have the nerve. "Just wanted to share a few heartfelt words with the boy away from _prying ears._ "

He glances towards the rowdy camp at that, and Hosea frowns, as if he isn't satisfied with that answer. He looks at you now, studying your unfocused eyes, your unsteady stance.

"You should be taking him to his tent to sleep it off." Hosea looks to Dutch again, suspicion clear in his tone. "It can wait, can't it?"

"Can I not have a moment with him, Hosea?" Dutch drawls, gentle accusation in his tone. Not the frenzy and screaming of Beaver Hollow, not yet. "Am I not _allowed?_ "

"Of course not, Dutch," Hosea says, pointed, and adds on just as pointedly. "I'm just asking you to think about Ezra."

 _Instead of yourself_ is implied, hangs heavy in the air. Dutch scoffs, looks to you.

"Fine then. _Ezra,_ do you or do you _not_ wish to accompany me inside for a private conversation concerning your place in this camp? Or elsewhere?"

You swallow the bait, hook and all. He could let you leave before the robbery, if you can convince him. He sounds open to the idea. Hosea's expression shifts, tightens as he visibly sees the hope come back to life in your eyes.

"I - yes. I don't mind." You look to Hosea. "I'm not that drunk, I'll be fine. Thank you, Hosea."

You mean that genuinely, and he glances between the two of you before stepping back.

"Just take it easy on him, Dutch."

"I don't know what you mean," the man replies, curt, and you're too drunk to figure out the hidden meaning. Dutch is wrapping an arm around your shoulders and steering you back towards Shady Belle, and you let him walk you up the steps, around the moldering entrance.

When he leads you to the stairs, something in your gut twists. You're too drunk to listen to it, that keen feeling of _something is wrong_ that only intensifies as Dutch guides you upstairs, and you only just figure out you should be alarmed by the time he's opening his bedroom doors and pushing you in.

Molly is nowhere to be found. Outside sulking, probably, because you don't doubt Dutch politely ejected her to make room for your sprawling, drunken self and Arthur, who's sitting on the bed, and whose lap you all but stumble into. He's instantly tense, letting you slide off of him and onto the sheets as he rises.

"Dutch--" he starts, clearly outraged, but the man cuts him off sharply.

"Don't mind him, Arthur, he's only here for the show."

"Here for--" Arthur looks at you, blinks as you blink owlishly at the two of them, not quite figuring it out yet. What are they talking about? For show? "He's drunk as a goddamn skunk."

"You'd rather him be sober for this? Remember _every little bit_ of it?" Dutch asks, brows rising, and Arthur falters.

"What the fuck is going on?" you ask, apropos of nothing.

Dutch laughs, clearly surprised by your bubble of obscenity. Maybe it's the way you're sitting up, staring at the two of them owlishly, clearly drunk. Something doesn't feel right but you can't put your finger on why, and Arthur is here, you always feel better when Arthur is around. He'll hurt you, sure, but only if Dutch can talk or guilt him into it.

Isn't that sad, that you feel safer with him solely because he asks questions before he hurts people? As opposed to--

"Dutch, this ain't - I don't know why you want it like this," Arthur says, low, flushed with what you think might be embarrassment. "You ain't proving whatever point you got to him when he's like this."

"Oh, I think he'll remember the pertinents just fine, Arthur." Dutch looks to you now, crossing over to stand beside Arthur. "Now, I hear the two of you are close. And I love that. I love to see my boys getting along."

But. There's a _but_ coming, you can feel it as he plucks at the buttons of Arthur's shirt carefully, undoing them one by one. Arthur doesn't seem to know what to do with himself, really, a handsome pink flush creeping down his face and disappearing into his chest hair. You can't hide the desire in your eyes and Arthur flushes deeper when he sees it.

And then Dutch leans in and drags his tongue along that pink stripe along his neck, and you understand, sort of. Why you're here. Arthur groans in his throat and your cock twitches at the sound. Then Dutch sinks his teeth in at his neck and Arthur _moans,_ a hand flying up to fist Dutch's shirt, and the arousal comes over you in a shivery wave.

 _He's only here for the show._ Dutch slides a thigh between Arthur's and watches with bright eyes as the other man presses down on it with a groan, dragging his hips until he opens his eyes and remembers you're watching. And _oh,_ are you watching. How could you not?

"Do we really gotta - with him here--"

"And have him miss the show?"

Have you miss the point, he really means, holding your eyes as he kisses Arthur. Grips him by the jaw and bites his lip, and Arthur groans as his mouth falls open, eyes fluttering as Dutch takes his mouth rough. Looking at you while he does it, like he's pissing on his territory.

 _Sure,_ he all but spells out, _you can borrow Arthur, but you'll never have him like this._

Never have him groaning against your mouth like he is with Dutch right now, gone from apprehensive to mindlessly turned on with nothing but a few touches and a kiss. Arthur's nipples are hard and Dutch casually drops his hand to twist one, and that fucking _moan_ that comes after is--

"Enjoying the show?" Dutch asks, and you realize you're cupping yourself through your pants, clearly hard. Your face is redder than it's ever been as Arthur turns his head and cracks an eye to look at you, gripping Dutch's hips tighter because of it, pressing down firmer on his thigh. Dutch laughs, sharp and clearly delighted. " _Well._ I had no idea you two had this effect on each other."

Can you be blamed? Besides the fact that he can be kind, that he seems to want to look out for you, just _look at him._ He's attractive when he's not flushed and wanting, much less _now,_ cock a hard line in his pants in the moments before Dutch unbuttons and drags them down. He wraps his rough hand around Arthur's cock and strokes, slow and firm, watching the younger man's knees nearly buckle from it.

You barely have time to move aside on the mattress before Dutch walks Arthur back and shoves him onto it, hands then dropping to strip the buttons of his waistcoat and toss it aside. Arthur, just a foot or two from you on the bed, can't tear his eyes away from each inch of dark, muscled chest that comes into view when Dutch works at his dress shirt. He _wants_ Dutch in a desperate, bone-deep way, like a thirsty dog and a cold clean river, lifts himself to lick a strip up Dutch's defined stomach with a groan.

You wonder how long they've been doing this. They move in perfect tune with one another, Dutch preening at the attention in the moments before he takes a fistful of Arthur's hair and yanks his head back, kneeling on the bed with his face inches from the younger man's.

You watch as Arthur opens his mouth obediently, waits for Dutch to spit in it before he swallows, eyes heavy lidded as he groans.

He's fucked you, been the burly cowboy with a thick cock you had a few embarrassing dreams about during puberty and quietly shut away, but you've never seen Arthur so obedient. Submissive. _Needy_ in all the ways he makes you need him, all the ways Dutch uses on him in turn.

"Strip," Dutch commands, and Arthur's hands drop to the pants bunched around his thighs, toeing off his boots as he struggles to get the jeans down his muscled legs. His thighs, toned and flexing as Dutch drags a palm along the inside of one. You want to lick them.

It isn't until you taste the gunpowder on Dutch's fingers that you realize you followed through on that desire, and Arthur looks nothing short of conflicted as you drag your tongue along his inner thigh, upwards, letting your urges control you. His hand comes down on the crown of your head soon enough, keeps you from going any further up than that, and Dutch tsks.

"Something wrong, Arthur?"

"He's drunk," Arthur huffs, but his tone isn't so steady. He wants to say no, but his body sure as fuck doesn't, cock leaking as you lift your head and suck his fingers into your mouth. Arthur nearly snarls. " _Fuck._ "

"Seems eager enough to me," Dutch drawls, pushing your hair out of your face as you drag your tongue between two of Arthur's rough fingers. You're drunk, sure, but you know that you _want_ so keenly that it hurts, and you're not sure which of them you want more when Dutch slips his hand down the back of your slacks and squeezes your ass. He pulls at you and you take in a sharp breath when your ass spreads, hole twitching in response.

"God _dammit._ "

Arthur groans it, clear defeat in his face as he watches you suck his fingers for a moment longer. Then he pushes down on your tongue until your eyes shoot open again, gagging around the pressure, drool slipping down your chin.

"Think you're some kinda tease, huh?"

You nod, and Arthur makes a throaty noise you can't decipher, his grip slipping as Dutch collects his wrists and pins them to the bed, smirking down at Arthur's heated, bewildered expression before he looks up at you. Conspiratorial, even, like you're both on the same side for once, and some desperate-to-please part of you jumps at Dutch's smirk and nod.

"Dutch? What're youuoo _oohhh--_ "

Arthur bucks his hips when you drag your tongue up his length, cussing as Dutch flexes his grip and keeps him pinned. The fact that he can't move seems to have him panicked for a moment, tense all over, but then Dutch leans down, brushes their lips. Kisses him again, full and firm, and Arthur's panic dissolves under your hands.

"I ain't gonna let him hurt you, son," Dutch teases, and Arthur's eyes turn strange for a moment. Sad, almost? He pushes up for an abrupt kiss and moans into Dutch's mouth as you start again, ignoring how obscene and sloppy you must look licking at his cock like this, wetting it, relishing the weight on your tongue.

You like this, and it's a problem. Could go back to your father and your ranch life and your quietly buttoned up urges before, maybe, but now you don't have to idly fantasize about what a man must be like - you've seen them, _known_ them in the most Biblical of senses, felt their broad weight and muscled bodies on top of you and inside of you and you'll never be able to go back to the way you were living before, never.

Arthur moans your name, flexes his thighs as he plants his feet and lifts his hips. To your credit, you only choke a little bit before pulling back, flattening your hands on his hips and making him _take_ the way you sink down on his cock, mouth velvety and tight. His moan is so deep and desperate that you can't help moaning around his cock in turn, feeling him twitch on your tongue.

"Don't go easy on him," Dutch rumbles, and Arthur whines his name, a high throaty _Duuuutch_ that ties your stomach in knots. The older man only leans down to smother him with a kiss, and then you only hear his muffled moans as you work his cock, feel the muscles of his stomach twitching underneath your palm. He flexes and twitches and squirms underneath yours and Dutch's hands, and now he seems to relish the fact that he can't move, has to let you have your way with him.

He likes this. Being helpless, pinned down and played with. You pop his cock out of your mouth and drag open-mouthed kisses down to his balls next, taking one in your mouth and sucking, alternating between them as you stroke his cock. But your drunken mind concocts an idea that won't let you go for how filthy it is, or how much he might like it.

Dutch raises his eyebrows when you pull off completely, hauling Arthur's hips up, but he understands soon enough, heat creeping into his face. Arthur showed you the river he bathes in earlier, so you know he's clean, and the drink has you pushing forward eagerly where you would otherwise hesitate to haul his hips up and spread his ass, dragging your tongue over his hole.

You don't even know that it'll feel good for him. But Arthur's strangled shout is loud enough to crack against the walls, legs and wrists twitching in yours and Dutch's combined grip.

"The hell are you--" Arthur groans, looks down just in time to watch you spread his cheeks and bury your tongue in his ass, and Dutch has the good sense to clap a broad hand over his mouth and keep it there, cutting down his ragged sounds. His cock is full and leaking against his stomach now, and when they aren't squeezed shut, his eyes are glassy and unfocused.

On you. Only on you. Even Dutch seems okay with this when he makes for such a beautiful sight.

"Looks like he's not as well-mannered as we thought, Arthur," he drawls, ignores that Arthur only answers in whimpers and muffled groans and watches you work instead - you know this because you open your eyes just briefly and see him staring, chest heaving with the force of his breaths.

"You are somethin' else, son," Dutch says, and wraps his fingers in your hair. Drags you forward until you're forced to straddle Arthur's hips, mouth dropping open like he's going to kiss you. He doesn't, of course, pushes a thumb into your mouth instead, speaking while Arthur pants beneath you, his hands settling on your hips. "You want this?"

"Yes," you garble around his thumb, desperate. Arthur is too far gone to argue properly anymore, but Dutch smirks down at him nonetheless, like he's just proved some kind of point. "Please--"

"Good boy."

He shoves you to the side, and before you can roll back into a sitting position, Dutch is grabbing Arthur by the arm and shoving him on top of you, positioning the two of you like you're statues, not people. By the time Dutch steps around you and drags your pants down your legs and off, boots included, Arthur's got his senses back enough to look concerned.

"You sure you wanna do this?" he murmurs in your ear, making like he's kissing your neck, and you squeeze your eyes shut and groan, arching up into his solid weight. He gives in, dropping his head to your shoulder. "Hell, alright. If you say so."

"See, Arthur? He's just fine." Dutch glances between your bodies and tsks. "Seems _more_ than happy to be here, I'd say."

You're hard enough for it to ache. Arthur wraps a hand around your cock and strokes gently, works sighs out of you as he looks to Dutch for direction. Barely has time to lift his hand and catch the little tin of petroleum Dutch tosses his way. He thumbs a generous amount and sets it aside, watches Dutch immediately take it back with a questioning look, but it hardly lasts when you're panting underneath him. His eyes drop as he spreads the stuff on his fingers and rubs at your ass, circles your hole until he can push a finger in.

The first few times, it had been uncomfortable. You'd had your misgivings. But Arthur is gentle about it now, and you're so eager for it, groaning and gripping under your thighs, holding them further apart. You think you might hear him cuss at the sight, testing you for a moment before pressing a second, more filling finger in.

And then Arthur grunts in surprise against your skin, and the two of you lean over in time to see Dutch press two slick, thick fingers back inside him, a steady in-and-out that has Arthur grunting, and then - _crying out,_ a high throaty noise when Dutch twists his fingers just right. His cock is leaking steadily against your thigh now.

Dutch leans over his back, his smile sharp as a knife.

"Something the matter, son?" he asks, curling his fingers until Arthur drops his head on your shoulder, sobs into your skin. You shift your hips and tighten around his fingers and he remembers what he's supposed to be doing, pumping his fingers into you roughly as he looks back.

"Dutch, I can't--"

"You can," Dutch replies, twisting his fingers until Arthur cries out. He looks at you, conspiratorial, and you realize the plan. "You don't have much of a choice."

You collect the extra petroleum off his hand and lean down, slicking up his cock while he groans. Dutch is playing with him so intently that he doesn't even realize what you're doing until you wrap your legs around his hips and pull him down, his cock sinking into you to the hilt.

Dutch pulls his fingers out when he sees Arthur collapse into your warm body, your legs linking around his hips as Dutch lines up. The sound Arthur makes when Dutch seats himself in him and pushes him further into you is unintelligible. It's like he's overloaded by sensation, crying out when Dutch pulls out and snaps his hips, starting to fuck him.

You can feel Arthur's cock move in you every time Dutch fucks into him, and soon enough, you and Arthur are moaning in tune, Arthur nearly unintelligible as he gasps and grunts.

"Was this your plan from the start, Dutch?" Arthur grunts, and Dutch brings a ringed hand across his ass, making him yelp and jerk away, inadvertently slamming his cock into you at an angle that makes you keen, arms thrown around his neck. "Fuck--"

"Of course not, Arthur," Dutch drawls, fucking Arthur slow and deep now. You feel every rock of his hips, groaning into his neck as Dutch watches. "I had no idea our audience would join in."

And before Arthur can argue, Dutch picks up the pace, gripping his hips and dragging him back fully onto his cock, having him sit on it. He sets his chin on Arthur's shoulder and drags his hands across his broad body, palming him like he owns him.

You're dazed, panting. But you look up and see Dutch staring a hole through you with Arthur in his lap, as if he's showing him off. _Look at him. He's mine, and he'll always be mine._

"Dutch," Arthur sighs, helpless, mindlessly turned on and not sure what to do with himself. Dutch answers by kissing him, and Arthur _moans_ into it, eyes squeezed shut as he opens up and lets Dutch take what he wants.

"I want you to fuck him while I fuck you, son. Can you handle that?"

Arthur nods, because he'd die before he disappointed Dutch, you think. He slips out of Dutch's arms and lines up again, pushing into you with a sigh that you mimic. But he isn't Dutch. He brushes your hair out of your face and looks at you earnestly, eyes as blue as the sky.

"You sure you want this?"

You answer by wrapping your legs around his waist, pushing him deeper into you with your ankles in the small of his back. Arthur only answers by gripping your hips properly, hauling them up at a slight angle.

Just having him in you feels good, but this? He's fucking you earnestly now, and you can't fight the gasps and groans as he strokes your cock, thumbs the head as he fucks you senseless. It isn't gentle, he knows you don't like it gentle.

Dutch takes the time to light a cigar. You can tell because you catch a whiff of smoke now and then as he passes by, watching. Arthur lifts your hips again and manages to tear a pleasured sob out of you when he brushes by the right spot, your hands knotted in the mildewy sheets.

"That's cute," Arthur says, breathless. "If I didn't know better, I'd say--"

He never finishes the thought, as Dutch settles in and seats his cock in him again. His thrusts immediately stop, going erratic, his head dropping to your shoulder. Dutch reaches over and pulls him up by his hair so he can hear him.

"What's the matter, Arthur? Can't handle it?"

"M'fine," Arthur mumbles back, but he's clearly having trouble. Moving back pushes him further onto Dutch's cock, but moving away drives his cock deeper inside you. He can't get away from the pleasure and it's unravelling him.

Honestly, it's not that great for you. Dutch's thrusts push him into you but he's not fucking you anymore, really, not fast or often enough to satisfy. But you're happy to link your legs around him and cup his flushed cheeks, wipe dirt from under one of his hazy eyes. This isn't about you, really. You just want to see Arthur feeling good, unravelling in your arms.

And he is. Dutch lets him collapse into your shoulder to set both hands on his hips and _fuck him,_ and soon enough you've got your arms wrapped around him while he moans and cries out into your shoulder, gripping you like a lifeline.

When he comes, he shakes all over, hard. Lets out a bone-deep noise into your skin, some mix between a sigh and a loud moan, shivering it out in your arms as he finishes inside you. Dutch pulls out, cock still hard, and rubs Arthur's flank.

"You did a good job, son," he says, patting Arthur's head, and gets a tired mumble in response. The two of you carefully push him off and lay him off on the side of the bed to put his head back together, still twitchy and groaning. Dutch looks to you afterwards. "And you, Ezra, did everything I could've asked for and then some."

"Just here to help," you grunt, taking your cock in hand to finish yourself off. Dutch's shadow looms over you in the moments before he settles on the bed between your legs, pulling your hand away from your cock with a firm grip on your wrist. You look up at him owlishly. "Dutch?"

"We ain't finished here, are we?" He glances down to how hard both of you are, then hauls your hips up. "Unless you'd rather walk to your tent like this. The choice is yours."

Truth is, you couldn't turn him down if you wanted to. Your cock is aching and you feel so empty, and so you lean back into the cushions and let him spread your ass, whistling low.

"Look at you." He spreads you wider and you feel Arthur's cum leaking out of you, onto Molly's side of the bed. (You'll feel horrible for that later.) You try to squirm out of his grip, but Dutch only puffs his cigar and spreads you wider, fingers digging deep grooves into your skin, holding you fast. Your face is absolutely _burning_ as he looks over your loose hole, and you suck in a breath through your teeth when he blows smoke over your aching cock and speaks, his voice rough. "Goddamn beautiful mess."

You don't know how to handle the praise, the aching need, the overwhelming and consuming _want_ all at once. You just squeeze your eyes shut and throw an arm over them, your voice thick.

" _Please, Dutch._ "

You don't know what you're asking for, exactly. More praise? More attention? To just get _fucked?_ Dutch settles on all three, leaning down over you as he pushes his cock in you in his usual steady, unforgiving push. Only this time, you're slick and aroused enough that it's sheer pleasure - he fills you up again and you're groaning, head tipping back, letting him lift your legs and guide them around his hips. The angle is better there, as he gives an experimental thrust.

You yelp, gripping at his shoulders, and he only grins down at you, handsome even with sweaty hair and a wild mustache. He does it again, and again, and soon enough your head falls back against the bed, your moans building as he spits out the chewed stub of his cigar and sets both hands on your hips, fingers flexing on your skin as he tests his grip.

Then he _really_ starts to fuck you.

This isn't about coaxing you to orgasm sweetly. You're not even really sure that Dutch is trying to get you to finish when he's fucking you this hard, and you have to muffle your shouts into your hand before someone outside comes to investigate. Dutch's grip and pace border on violence.

It's so _good._ You can't muffle that first scream, but you manage to get the rest, dragging down one of the dusty pillows and biting into it. You've never been handled this roughly, Dutch hasn't come close to fucking you this hard. You'll be sore for days from the way you're taut and tight around him, probably. Maybe even weeks. When he leans down and sinks his teeth into your exposed neck, head thrown back as it is, Dutch knows just how hard to bite to curl your toes and leave a dark bruise in the shape of his teeth.

"Ezra?" Arthur says, and you very vaguely realize he's up and around, peering at you. You have trouble focusing your eyes on him since Dutch hasn't stopped, even moreso when you let go of the pillow and spit out mold to talk to him instead.

"Ar-th--ah! _Arthur!_ I'm--" You don't know what you're trying to tell him, nothing makes sense besides squeezing tighter around Dutch's cock and moaning when it hits the right spots, hearing Dutch cuss under his breath. "Please--"

"Dutch, is he even--"

"Do _not_ start, Arthur," Dutch snaps, breathless, and he falters. Focuses on you instead, palming your cheek as you pant against the soft skin of his inner wrist, an arm flying up to grip him for support.

He does more than oblige. After a moment of indecision, Arthur leans down and takes your cock in his mouth, all velvety heat and wet tongue and Dutch is rumbling a laugh and _oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck--_

You hardly realize you're babbling. Arthur stops long enough to clap a hand over your mouth before he continues his work, and you settle for incoherent moaning into his skin, eyes rolling when he pushes you to the back of his throat and swallows.

It goes on another minute or two after, but you don't remember details, just overwhelming, mind-melting pleasure - Arthur's surprisingly skilled mouth and Dutch's cock hitting all the right spots for just how _violently_ he's fucking you, and god, some part of you hates it. You're never going to get something like this again, probably. This sheer destructive pleasure that winds tight in your gut and puts a quiver in your thrashing limbs, two pairs of hands and mouths that pin you and make you take this unrelenting sensation whether you like it or not.

When you finally come, Arthur has to grip tight around your jaw to muffle the throat-tearing scream as you buck up into his throat, your body bucking, wracked with your orgasm. He gags, pulls off drooling your cum, and the sight seems to be enough to push Dutch over the edge - he fucks you through your orgasm and gets you yelping and choking on a second wave of crippling pleasure, squeezing tight as he snarls and buries himself deep. You can't be certain, but you think you hear a desperate, twisting noise muffled in his throat.

You're twitchy long after it's done. Dutch all but drapes himself across your body, huffing and panting against your skin like it took everything out of him. You're in a haze, limbs light and leaden at the same time, tingly and heavy and tired and invigorated all at once.

Arthur says something, grousing off at your side, but you don't really listen. Dutch says something too, but you don't really listen to that, either - you just let them both haul one of your arms around their necks and drag you up towards the pillows, falling to either side of you afterwards.

"Think we wore him out?" Arthur asks, tired as he teases, and Dutch answers with a slight scoff and a ruffle of your hair.

"Oh, I think he'll be down for the rest of the night easily."

"Well he ain't gonna stay here all night."

"No, not the greatest idea with Miss O'Shea about." Dutch lights a fresh cigar, reclines back on his sweaty bed. "Smuggle him off to your room, would you, Arthur? We're not getting him to his tent out front without some questions... and at least one headache."

Arthur huffs a laugh, brushes your hair out of your face. Your eyes pop open again, limbs groaning and cracking in complaint as you force yourself to sit up, still muzzy from sex, and you blink owlishly as the two of them quietly set to putting you back in order. Lifting your leaden body so they can slide your arms back in your sleeves, pulling your pants back over your hips, pushing your hair back into something vaguely resembling order.

You're like a doll through all of it, eyes only fluttering open again when you feel Dutch's lips on your temple, his smoky words in your hair.

"Good job, son. Now go on and rest."

"Thank you," you say for no real reason you can think of; maybe it's a remnant from your schooling years, thanking teachers for their attention. It earns a chuckle in your ear and a light groan as Arthur hauls your weight up, bears the brunt of it while he walks you out. Funny how Dutch gets to lounge like a king while Arthur does the cleanup, but isn't that just how the two of them seem to work?

It's a good thing no one manages to see you on the way to Arthur's room, because you look anything but _drunk_ or _very sleepy,_ your steps unsteady and heat in your cheeks. You don't fully relax until Arthur's shutting his door behind you, stepping forward a few paces to land face-down in his rough sheets. You hear Arthur laugh warm at your back and feel a thrill for it, muted as it is through your exhaustion.

"I got some errands to run, but you oughta be just fine here," he says, pulling your layers off and dragging the sheets over you. "Rest up, we got a job comin' up."

He brushes your hair out of your eyes, gives you the opportunity to kiss his knuckles before he goes. He laughs, faint, like he's not sure how to deal with that before simply leaving, shutting the door firm behind him. Nothing reaches you in here but the soft sounds of revelry outside, happy people and genuine laughter.

It won't last. None of it will. But you fall asleep without that knowledge, burying your face in Arthur's pillow to fall asleep with the smell of his hair.


End file.
